


Stranger Than Kindness

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Molly Hooper, Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Molly and Her Sherlock, Post Reichenbach, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Pre-The Final Problem, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Kissing, Sherlock and Molly, Sherlolly - Freeform, The Final Problem, The Six Thatchers, The lying detective, light sherlolly smut, post reichenbach sherlolly, sherlolly angst, sherlolly angust, sherlolly smut, tld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 75,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Hidden moments between Molly and her Sherlock that we don't see on screen but that are hinted at- starting with the Reichenbach fall, leading up to and after the Final Problem.Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this after re-watching The Reichenbach Fall, and I'm convinced Sherlock kissed Molly after he said "you". This may turn into a series of hidden moments, so stay tuned!  
> Enjoy! xx

_Prologue, Bart's Morgue--_

“You,” he said with such a clear voice, with such conviction as he looked down at her with those incredible eyes. 

Molly stopped breathing as he took another step towards her, so close she could count his individual eyelashes, saw the unshed tears that clung to them, “you’ve got me,” she told him soundlessly, “just tell me what the problem is.”

Time slowed and stopped as he bent his head, bringing his face closer to hers, eyes never straying away as he brushed his mouth to hers, bringing his hands to cup her face in his broad palms, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. 

Melting into him, Molly clutched his lapels to keep upright as he stepped closer to her, their bodies flush now as he deepend the kiss, nudging her lips to part with his own. She moaned as she opened her mouth to him, gripping his coat so tightly her knuckles turned white. 

But she didn’t care as Sherlock kissed her slowly, torturing her with a sweetness she’d never expect from him. His lips were so soft, so full, and all she could think was  _Sherlock._

He pulled away, pressing his forehead to hers as they tried to catch their breaths. “We’ll finish this later,” he promised, his voice rough, intimate, his breath warm against her mouth, “we have work to do.”

* * *

 

_After the Fall_

She took him in her body and moaned his name, her legs wrapped his waist as he surged inside her, her fingers tangling in his black curls as he buried his face in his throat. “Molly,” he moaned her name, as he pushed himself harder and harder inside her, his breath desperate as if he would die without her.

She closed her eyes, memorizing how he felt, stretching her, marking her, destroying her completely.

There was a part of her that couldn’t figure out how they’d gotten here from Bart’s. How she’d ended up coming home to him after the havoc of the fall, opening her front door to find herself swept up in his arms, in a frenzied kiss that had bruised her mouth, tossed on her couch by Sherlock Holmes. The intensity of his eyes had been frightening, the single-minded determination as he’d stripped her of every article of clothing, never uttering a single word as his head disappeared between her thighs, as he’d licked her and memorized her, enchanted her with the sight of those dark curls between her thighs. She’d orgasmed then, her nails digging into his arms where he’d wrapped them around her thighs to lift her hips off the couch, moaned his name repeatedly, unwilling to believe it was Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s tongue, Sherlock’s lips, Sherlock’s teeth....

She clung to him now, running her hands down his back, feeling the muscles beneath her palms grip and release his bones as he moved inside her, cupping his ass as he pushed himself into her very soul. “Oh God, Sherlock,” she turned her face to murmur against his ear, pressing kisses there, to his jaw, his throat, stopping herself from asking him why now, why had he waited, what had changed.

He turned his face to hers, his mouth open, those lips swollen and red from their kisses, his face flushed as he looked down at her with the most incredible heat in his eyes, his fingers tightening in her hair. He didn’t speak, as if Sherlock Holmes was suddenly incapable of it, as if all thought had disappeared. He looked at her with such desperate, frantic longing that she didn’t need him to speak, and kissed him, breathing him into her lungs.

Her phone ringing destroyed their peace, and Sherlock growled, still buried inside her as he stretched over the side of the couch to grab her trousers where she’s dropped them earlier. She held him in her body, a little stunned at the intimacy as he fumbled in her pocket until he found her phone. “It’s John, should probably answer,” he said in a voice that was deeper than usual.

Molly was breathless as he remained buried in her, settling down with his cheek pressed to her chest while she answered the phone. “Hello?” She managed, her own voice husky and unrecognizable, thanks to the devil that was on top of her. She hoped John would attribute it to grief and nothing else.

“Molly,” God, poor Watson sounded terrible, “just wanted to see how you’re doing...”

“I’m...I’m alright,” she cleared her throat, Sherlock’s breath fluttering over her skin, her nipples, “I just got home from...from the autopsy. I frankly don’t know what...what to do with myself. With him…without him.”

“I know,” John said through a deep sigh, emotions thickening his voice. She hated lying, hated holding Sherlock inside her and telling his best friend that he was dead. But if it kept Sherlock safe, then she would lie for the rest of her life if she had to. Whatever it took to keep him safe. “I just can’t believe—” he cut himself off, clearing his throat, “listen, want me to pop by?”

“No no,” she tried not to sound frantic, “I appreciate it, but I think...yeah I think I’d rather be alone.”

“Alright, yeah,” he cleared his throat, “I’ll uh, talk to you later Molly.”

He hung up before she could say anything, and Sherlock lifted himself off of her, taking her phone and tossing it on the coffee table. His eyes were rimmed with red but he didn’t speak, and she didn’t need him to, just hugged him against her.

His orgasm with a sigh, a release of the great tension he’d been holding in his bones, his mouth falling open on a silent scream of ecstasy that she absorbed in her body, with her core. He resettled them on the couch, her head nestled against his chest, legs tangled together as she tried to convince herself that this was happening.

“You alright?” He asked, his voice washing over her, through her, tightening her nipples.

She glanced up at him, finding his eyes a swirl of blue and green filled with concern, “yes,” she answered, rubbing her thigh between his, “are you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile, bringing his broad palm to cup her cheek, rubbing her lips with his thumb, “for a dead man,” he murmured.

Molly opened her mouth and sucked his thumb, tasting the salt of his skin, watching the flames shiver to life in his eyes as he watched her. “If you have something to say sherlock, say it.”

“I’m trying to find a way to say it without sounding like an utter arse,” he murmured.

“That’s never stopped you before,” she laughed softly.

But he didn’t, and the somber expression on his face shocked her. He looked like a man grieving, heartbroken and lost. She dipped her head down to press a kiss over his beating heart, swiping her tongue over his nipple, wanting to take away that expression from his eyes. Grief and heartbreak didn’t belong on his face, and she was damned if she let it remain there. “This, whatever this is between us Molly, this unnamed madness, can’t last,” his voice was gruff, and she kept her head down, her lips in the center of his chest, “I’m going to be gone for an undetermined and indeterminable amount of time, and I don’t want you to think that this is going to last, or that it can last. Molly, I don’t even know if I’ll live long enough to come back.”

“I know,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against the coarse hair at his chest, feeling his fingers cup the back of her head.

“Don’t wait for me,” he said after a few moments of terrible silence that echoed throughout the silent flat.

She considered his words for a few moments, wondering if she has the courage....she lifted her eyes up, hauling herself up to her elbow and looked down at him, tracing his features with her fingertips, fascinated by his cheekbones, his lips, the way his mouth fell open for her. “I know,” she told him, “I just....while you’re here, can—“ she cleared her throat, “can we have this? This....lie? This temporary escape from sanity?”

“I’m leaving after the funeral,” he said in confusion.

“Three days,” she murmured, having already made the arrangements with Mycroft, “give me your three days.”

His answer is was a deep kiss, sweeping his tongue into her mouth as he drew her on top of him, as she settled herself over her love, taking him into her heart.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like the little hidden moments thing might be happening! Here's my interpretation of the Empty Hearse! Enjoy!

He was being silly.

He knew he was being silly, unreasonable, illogical.

The chemical defect was clearing rearing its head, making itself known in the way his heart thundered as he stood in the silence of the locker rooms. She would be along any minute now, long over due for her lunch hour according to the computer system. He knew her routine: she would always walk to the locker rooms, change into street clothes before going to get food, even if she just went to the cafeteria.

He should’ve been more nervous about confronting John Watson or anyone else who had thought him dead for two years, not Molly Hooper....not the woman who had made it all possible. Without her help, not even Mycroft could’ve pulled off his death so convincingly.

Sherlock had spent two years losing his humanity, systematically dismantling the web Moriarty had left in place, watching the way he let the things he had to do eat away at the bit of humanity he’d cultivated under John Watson’s careful eyes.

But it was for Molly that he kept the last shreds of himself in-tact, it was the warmth of her, the very idea of her existing in the world that had kept him from going over the edge, that had forced him to act with care and precision. He kept himself alive for Molly and hadn’t realized it until now, standing like a giddy teenager, waiting to surprise her.

The three days they’d spent together after faking his death, the three days they’d stolen for themselves, had burrowed under his skin, lived in his thoughts, dictated and ruled his mind palace with an iron fist. He tried to stuff the memories in the basement of his mind palace, putting them under lock and key but they always escaped somehow, always infected his thoughts, his every breath.

More times than he could count, he’d find himself thinking about her when he was ankle deep in mud and muck or sitting at a seedy bar in Kinshasa or Mombasa, waiting for his pray and she would come to him. And he lived those three days over and over again, remembered the taste of her skin, the way she would come home from the hospital and toss her bags before hurling herself into his arms wordlessly, Kissing him with a ferocity he hadn’t understood, or wanted to understand as he frantically stripped her, eager to fill his hands with her soft warmth. 

He closed his eyes against the memory now, of their last time together. She’s been dressed in black, her eyes red, tears staining her cheeks when he’d come after watching Watson saying his good byes. He’d knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his, “why are you crying Molly? You know I’m still alive.”

She’d called him a git before wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into her. He’d made love to her on the couch, slipping her knickers down and stuffing them in his pocket as he’d taken her one last time. It had been months later that he’d realized she was crying because he was leaving her.

He heard the heavy double doors at the end of the hall open and he perked up. Watching her walking, distracted as always, wearing an atrocious jumper that made him smile, her hair in a braid on the side. God, had she always looked so innocent? So naive? So pure, like s crystal clear lake he wanted to bathe in and forget the last months of his existence.

She didn’t see him as she tried to stretch her stiff neck and shoulders and he remembered the first time he’d given her a massage, the way she’d jumped then relaxed as they’d continued talking about the autopsy she’d conducted for him. He’d still been ignorant then, unable to understand that he loved Molly Hooper more than his soul. She was too focused on unlocking the locker to notice him. She glanced up in the mirror, spinning around to make sure it was him as he felt himself smile for her, his eyes absorbing every detail of her that he could, taking a step closer to him.

“Sherlock,” she breathed, looking as if she’d seen a ghost, “is it really you? Are you really here? Or am I dreaming again?”

She reached up a hand to touch his cheek and he bent down, nuzzling her palm, breathing in the familiar scent of her hands, clean soap and disinfectant, “yes,” he murmured, “how often did you dream of me coming back?”

“Every night,” she whispered, launching herself into his arms before he knew it, her surprisingly strong arms wrapped around his neck and he reflexively, instinctively held her against him, nearly lifting her off the ground as she held him tightly, her breath warm against his throat. Pulling away slightly, she looked at him with those brown eyes that had lived in his dreams, “is everything alright? Why are you back?”

He didn’t set her down, didn’t want to lose the softness of her body against him, “want me to go back?”   
            She laughed, a tear-filled sound dripping with disbelief as she hugged him against her, fingers tangling in his hair the way they always did. “You didn’t answer my question,” she murmured.

“Mycroft needs me to find a terrorist cell in London,” he told her, closing his eyes, deliberately relaxing against her, letting himself enjoy the feel of her. John’s reaction had left him feeling empty, unwelcome back in the real world. The center of his chest had been hollow, some demons emerging and whispering in his ear that everyone was better off with him dead. He’d come directly to Barts after John and Mary had left, he’d needed the validation he knew he’d find in Molly’s arms.

Molly looked up at him, “are you back, for good? Are you going to tell people?”

“I’m back,” he said and couldn’t stop his eyes from dropping to her lips, the way her pink tongue snuck out to wet her lips. He clenched his jaw so hard he thought he would break his teeth, his jaw.

She touched his nose gingerly, frowning, “who did that?” she asked, sounding like an angry tigress.

“Ah, that,” he chuckled, “John got a little too happy to see me.”

“Oh God,” she murmured, her fingertips cold as she touched his swollen nose, her expert fingers detecting whether or not it was broken, “he really hit you pretty hard, didn’t he?”

“Pretty sure he was trying to send me back to the grave,” he told her, turning his lips into her palm, “it’s alright, he didn’t break it.”

She didn’t say anything for several moments, just gazed into his eyes, “London seemed so empty without you,” she murmured, bringing her hands to rest on his chest, rubbing the lapels of his coat between her fingers. The warmth of her palms on his chest grounded him, and for the first time in two years, since he’d taken her on the couch in her apartment, he felt like himself, felt like himself in his own skin. “Welcome back,” she murmured.

He didn’t realize he was leaning down, didn’t realize that he was panting slightly as he wrapped his arms completely around her, drawing her closer to him, didn’t realize that time had stopped as he brushed his lips to hers and felt the silkiness of her mouth pressed against his. There was a time warp when he was with Molly Hooper, there had to be. Time seemed to speed up and slow down as she clutched him closer to her, opening her mouth for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He felt like he was hit with a wall, as if he’d been going at speeds that broke the sound barrier and suddenly a brick wall was erected in his path. Everything came crashing down around him, the past two years, the isolation, the bone gripping terror he’d experienced on a daily basis rocking him as he held Molly in his arms. He wrapped his arms around her and she wrapped hers around his waist, clutching him closer.

Molly pulled away with a gasp, pressing her forehead to his and he felt discombobulated at being separated, wanting to kiss her again, wanting her so much his stomach hurt. He glanced at the door, knew that he could lock the door after taking three large steps towards it, he would press her against the door and take her, bury himself inside her warmth, find himself in all that Molly was. “Oh Sherlock,” she murmured, “I can’t…I can’t do this. I—I have work,” she murmured as if she’d read his mind.

He smiled, brushing his lips against hers again but she pulled back, “Molly?” he frowned, letting her hide her face against his throat, “what’s wrong?” he cupped her head in his palms, forcing her to look up at him, frowning down at her as concern filled him.

Did she hate him? Did she not want him anymore? Had she fallen out of love? Was she ever in love with him in the first place?

He’d never claimed to be an expert on love, but he recognized the chemical reaction, knew the signs of the chemical defect, even grudgingly recognizing them in himself when he was with Molly. Had he missed something?

Unfamiliar panic filled him, he felt blind, unable to understand why tears were swimming in her eyes, why she looked so forlorn, why she wouldn’t let him kiss her again. He had the sense that he was moving with a limb or without one of his senses, reaching and trying to understand something that was simply impossible. He felt emotionally crippled and didn’t know how to overcome it.

“I’m just—” she took a shaky breath, “overwhelmed,” she told him, “I wasn’t expecting you, I wasn’t expecting this Sherlock, you have to give me time to adjust to you being back. Darling,” she called him and something inside him bloomed at her familiar term of endearment, the same term she had baptized him with during three stolen days, “I want nothing more than to…to, you know, with you right now but,” she shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks uninterrupted, “I need time.”

He left her a little after that, heading to Greg Lestrade and the Yard, after they’d shared another slow, agonizing kiss. He felt a little more like himself, a little more like the Sherlock he’d been during those three stolen days in her arms. He liked that Sherlock, and he found himself chasing him.


	3. Chapter 3

            The text from Sherlock asking her to meet at Baker Street hadn’t been a surprise. She’d spent the past three days expecting it to pop up, had known he would want another face-to-face but unable to picture it. Their reunion had destroyed her, but what had happened when she’d gotten home had rocked her entire universe.

            Molly had left Bart’s that day determined to break it with Tom.

Dear, sweet Tom who loved her, who gave her a sense of normalcy that she thrived on.

Well, that she should’ve been thriving on.

He was so sweet, so safe, always attuned to her needs, in love with her and the life they were building together, had been for the past eight months.

But one glance at _him_ , at Sherlock, and she had known what she had suspected all along…Her relationship with Tom was a lie, a lie she was telling herself, a lie to simply force herself to have what she had thought she wanted: a normal man, a normal relationship, a normal future filled with normal couple things like weekends at a pub and a dog to play with.

            One kiss, one glance, one sigh in Sherlock’s presence and she’d realized it was all futile…

            Molly had sworn to herself that she would sit Tom down and tell him it was over between them, but she’d walked into her flat to find every surface covered with candles or red roses, and Tom sitting in the middle of a heart created by tiny candles, his heart in his eyes. She’d been stunned beyond words, tears streaming down her face as he’d knelt in front of her on one knee, opening that little red velvet box and asking her that single question…She’d said yes, because that’s the only thing she’d been able to mutter.

            He had hugged her, and she knew he thought she was crying because she was so happy, because she was so overwhelmed with joy, with the proposal but she hugged him back, her lips still tingling from Sherlock’s kisses, still tasting _him_ on her tongue, in her skin.

            She’d pushed him out of her thoughts, forced herself to get angry at his intrusion, at the fact that he was so arrogant that he could waltz into her life and pick up where he’d left off. She’d let Tom kiss her, forced the anger at Sherlock to blossom, determined and convinced she would exorcise him out of her mind, out of her thoughts.

            She’d lived without him for two years, she’d done well without him. Two years, and she’d proved to herself that it was entirely possible for her to live without Sherlock. Two years, and she’d proven to herself that her love for wasn’t the end all be all of her existence, that she was complete as Molly Hooper without Sherlock Holmes. In fact, two years and she’d convinced herself she was better without that arrogant man’s shadow hounding her every breath.

            Molly had closed her eyes as Tom had made love to her that night, purposefully ignoring the fact that she squeezed them shut so she wouldn’t see him, so that she wouldn’t think about what a mess her life had suddenly become.

She’d squeezed her eyes shut as Tom moved above her, and tried not to get overwhelmed, thinking about how she was betraying Sherlock…how much it hurt to know he was in London and she was with a man who couldn’t hold a candle to him.

Molly had deliberately chosen to pretend everything was fine, and for the past three days, she’d convinced herself that she was happily engaged to Tom…normal, average Tom who wouldn’t leave her, who wouldn’t let her worry about his life by simply existing, by doing what he did best.

            She wouldn’t have to tell Sherlock she was engaged, and she clung to that saving grace, knew he would notice it before she had to voice those words. He would understand why she hadn’t let them make love in the locker room…he would deduce everything for himself.  

            When she got to Baker street, her stomach hurt, and she rubbed her face, forcing herself to put on a brave front when she went up the steps, making sure her gloves were on to hide the damned, cursed ring that was slowly strangling her. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, her eyes hungrily tracing his shoulders, the way his burgundy house coat draped around him like a cloak, his impeccable posture even with his hands in his trouser pockets.

She’d felt her breath lodge in her chest when he’d turned around, heart fluttering as he’d taken a step closer to her, “Molly,” he’d said her name and she’d marveled at how beautiful the one syllable sounded coming from his mouth.

        

* * *

   

The chips turned into ash in his mouth as he chewed, nearly succumbing to the urge to throw them to the ground. But he forced his legs to move forward, one step at a time, forcing himself to eat and pretend he was all right, that he wasn’t bothered, that every breach didn’t sting. He carefully disguised the chaos in his mind palace with an outward appearance of detached calm and arrogant disregard for human emotions and sensations, like a broken heart and aching soul.

            This wasn’t how he’d imagined today ending, with him mechanically moving through London alone, his feet carrying him to Baker street out of memory.

This wasn’t at all how he’d predicted today.

            When he’d texted Molly that morning, he’d thought they’d run around the city together, reacquainting themselves with each other, ending the night with dinner at Angelo’s. He’d woken up that morning and found himself dying for her warmth, for the scent of her skin, the taste of her, for all that was Molly to permeate every decrepit cell in his body, his every thought.

            How had he missed it?

            How had he missed the fact that she was engaged?

            Had he blinded himself with the joy of having her by his side all day and not seen that small, unworthy ring?

            He should’ve known something was wrong in the locker room, but he’d thought it was human emotion getting in her way, the shock of having him back requiring a period of adjustment. But he’d stood in the locker room and kissed her, and licked her, and had told himself he would give her all the time in the world because the world revolved, and the one thing he knew for certain was that Molly belonged to him. And he to her.

            The world had crashed around him when she’d playfully slapped at his hand when he’d been ringing the doorbell at the client’s flat. The back of his skull had tightened in the most peculiar way, and he’d been obsessed with how small the ring was. She deserved so much better…

            Life stopped for him for a few heartbeats as she stood at the foot of the stairs, watching him patiently with her brown eyes, with patience that no one else showed him, with an understanding that destroyed him from within.

What was the point of coming home if home…home wasn’t his home anymore. His home belonged to someone else now…

A lyric from some ridiculous song Molly loved wafted through his mind… _our home is not a home…_

            But he’d told her to move on, had wanted to her to be happy, to find happiness where had failed her so miserably for so many years.

            She deserved a normal relationship, a normal man who could give her things like a normal wedding filled with tradition he didn’t scoff at; a husband who gave her normal things like a home and children, a husband who had a job that didn’t require her worrying about whether or not he would make it to the end of the day alive, whether he would be shot and end up in the hospital. She deserved a husband whose job didn’t involve constant worry that his enemies would try to get to him through Molly.

            In those moments he’d stood in front of her, his fingers flexing with the need to touch her, to hold her as she’d told him about her fiancé, he’d lived through a lifetime with her in his mind. He’d imagined the peace he’d find with her in his arms, knew and felt that he would find everything missing if he kept her smiles for himself. In those heartbeats as he’d forced a smile for her, he’d imagined her growing big with his seed, imagined their future with a house filled with children that were physical proof of the fact that he, Sherlock Holmes, loved Molly Hooper. He might’ve even married her, might’ve given her more things he hadn’t thought he was capable of. He was capable of much when it came to Molly Hooper…

            He’d wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to beg her to give up everything for him, to destroy her promise to him and stay with him, not move on.

            His lungs burned as her eyes swam with unshed tears, realizing he wasn’t worthy…wasn’t capable….

            He’d tried to imagine giving Molly a normal proposal like the one John had planned for Mary, a posh restaurant with a ring, a simple question…he was incapable of that normalcy, scoffed at it when his Molly probably yearned for it.

            _His Molly…_

            A sing song voice, a remnant of a time long past cackled in the dungeons of his mind palace, “she’s not yours anymore!”

            Everything hurt as he’d kissed her cheek, as he felt her hold her breath, her head jerking as if she’d forced herself to stop before turning her face to him like she always did…always had done.

            He closed his eyes and retreated to his Mind Palace. The unwelcome shadow of his own madness, chained and contained in a straight jacket walked behind him as he walked to the suite of rooms he’d given Molly.

“I love you,” he’d told her before firmly closing the doors behind him, the madness in him crowing at his defeat, laughing at the fact that only his friend Molly was allowed outside the suite of rooms now, and his lover…his love… Molly was forever shut away behind those ornate doors.

            He ate the chips without tasting them, remembered the chips Mycroft had bought him when he’d been a suicidal teenager, and found himself wishing his veins were full of poison.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adult content below, reader discretion advised! Enjoy! Happy Valentine's day! xx

            _Don’t do it._

_Don’t think about it._

_Don’t even consider it._

_Keep dancing._

_Keep enjoying the night._

_Look at your fiancée._

_Imagine your own wedding._

_Imagine how happy you’ll be._

_Imagine how handsome he’ll look._

_Imagine how pretty you’ll feel in your white wedding gown._

_Imagine a normal life._

_Don’t follow him._

_Don’t think about him._

_Don’t think about how dejected he looked walking away._

_Don’t think about how lonely he must be feeling._

_Just. Don’t._

But her feet carried her away from the dance floor before she knew it. Her heart had already left with him, whatever fight she was putting up was futile, already lost.

Because he was Sherlock, and she was Molly.

She barely remembered to grab her bag and coat from the girl at the door, bursting out into the night, barely registering the cold as her eyes found him putting on his coat with that familiar flourish. She tried running but her heels made it impossible, sinking into the pebbles that created the pathway around the massive fountain. Impatient, she took off her shoes, running in her bare feet. She could feel pain and loneliness radiating from him, a palpable sensation that broke her heart.

“Molly!” she heard Tom’s voice behind her, saw Sherlock turn around with his hands buried in his pockets, his frown apparent even in the darkness of the night, “what are you doing!”

Molly forced herself to turn around, to look at Tom, “Sorry…I’m sorry,” she called, hearing the crunch of the gravel behind her as Sherlock walked back to her, “I’ll-I’ll talk to you later. I’m sorry.”

Tom’s face twisted with anger, his eyes on Sherlock, “are you following _him?_ ”

“I—I’m sorry, I really am, but we’ll—we’ll talk about it later,” she murmured again, taking a few steps backwards, feeling Sherlock standing behind her more than she heard his footsteps come to a stop.

“If you’re going after that – that _psychopath_ , then you and I are through, Molly, do you understand?” he yelled, “we are _through_. I am sick and tired of everything being about _him_ , of him _always_ coming first! Every time!”

“Sociopath,” she found herself murmuring, before she could stop herself.

“What?” Tom frowned at her.

“He’s a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath,” she cleared her throat, watching herself answering him in such a strange, removed way, watching with disinterest as she threw everything away, “there’s—there’s a difference.”

“I don’t give a damn!” he yelled, taking a step forward and suddenly Sherlock was in front of her as if he thought Tom would try to hurt her.

Sherlock pointed a finger at Tom, looking menacing as the black leather of his gloves caught the moonlight, but he didn’t say anything, leaving the threat unspoken. “It’s all right,” she murmured working the ring off her finger, sidestepping Sherlock to walk to Tom. Silently, she handed him the engagement ring and felt the weight of the world slide off her shoulders, the weight of the lie that she had been telling herself disappearing.

Tom didn’t move as Sherlock and Molly walked away silently to the main road, Sherlock using his phone to call a cab for them. They walked with their hands stuffed in their pockets, keeping a distance between them, their heads ducked down as they lost themselves in the silence. He noticed she was struggling to hold her shoes and her bag, taking her shoes from her and putting them in his pockets for her without saying a word.

They got to the main road, Sherlock perching against the low wall as Molly stood in front of him, wrapping her arms around herself as she wondered if she had truly gone mad, more worried about where they were going in that shared cab than the fact that she had just flushed her future down the toilet. A future with Tom had been a tangible, real future...A future with the man behind her…it was as tangible as catching smoke in your hand.

She tried to feel regret, tried to feel the soul crushing heartbreak of a broken engagement but found only relief there, only nervousness about where they were going once the cab arrived. Hearing the whisper of a lighter, she turned around to find him lighting a cigarette as he sat on the low, stone wall, watching her with a dark expression that loosened something deep within her.

She watched him a blow a stream of gray smoke into the night sky, her eyes tracing his perfect bone structure and she took a step towards him without letting herself think about it. She felt like they were two magnets, two entities forced into a carpenter’s vice, an immovable object coming face-to-face with an unstoppable force. Her arms still wrapped herself, she stood directly in front of him, noticing how he spread his thighs to make room for her as he took another drag from the cigarette.

“I thought you’d quit,” she murmured, watching the way he tilted his head, the darkness in his eyes, in his expression creating knots in the pit of her stomach, making her feel heavy and disjointed, unbalanced with him being the only grounding force in her world.

“Selective quiting,” he told her, his voice as soft as the night that surrounded them, “sometimes, patches aren’t enough, nothing’s enough to kill the craving.”

“Have you tried nicotine gum?” she asked.

“I wasn’t talking about nicotine,” he murmured, turning his head from her to look down the road, reaching up to touch his hand to his lip to remove something from his lip before taking another drag.

            She swallowed, shivering even as her skin heated beneath her coat. She reached out and took the cigarette from his fingers, feeling pleasure at the surprise on his face when she took a deep drag, his chuckle warm, “I’d forgotten you smoked.”

            Molly raised a brow, blowing smoke away from him, “it’s how we met remember? Sneaking smokes at university behind the science building after organic chemistry.”

            His voice was molten lava, “how could I forget?” he laughed, “mousey little Molly Hooper with her dirty little habit.”

            She glanced at him and saw the 20-year-old he’d been, his black, unruly curls framing his slim face, those incredible eyes, those cheekbones, his lanky frame draped in a t-shirt and black jeans that dripped off him, the track marks on his forearms bruised and terrifying. They hadn’t spoken to each other for nearly a month, just showing up to that spot to share a smoke. And one day he’d stopped showing up, eventually replaced by his brother who’d introduced himself as Mycroft Holmes, occupying a minor position in the British government, who had wanted her to know that Sherlock was still alive, and recovering in rehab.

            He grabbed the front of her coat now, pulling her close to him to stand between his spread legs, “you shouldn’t have done that Molly,” he told her, his eyes searching hers.

            “I had to,” she said in quiet voice, not used to being eyelevel with him and found herself mesmerized…hypnotized…struck. He looked devastatingly handsome, but then, when did he not? She took another deliberate drag from the cigarette and he leaned towards her like she had known he would, brushing his open mouth against hers, taking the smoke from her mouth to blow it out behind them.

            “You shouldn’t have done it,” he repeated, “I’m not worth your future.”

            She laughed at that, wondering how blind he was, how deliberately blind he made himself to the fact that he was her future. He was her past, present, her heart and soul, the love of her life…and no matter how far away they ran from each other, they would always come back here. “You’re worth everything I say you are,” she told him, “arrogant, impossible, unbearable git. Worth everything.”

            He didn’t wait for the excuse of smoke this time and kissed her, yanking her closer to him, licking inside her mouth and she let herself feel him, let herself suck his tongue the way she had wanted to for nearly three years, the way she had wished she had in the locker rooms. She reached up to cup his face in her palms and sighed, arching into him, feeling the movement of his jaw beneath her hands as licked inside her mouth.

            The ride back to London was quiet and somber, as if neither wanted to ruin the peace of the moment they’d found together. But she sat in the back with his arm wrapped around her, her cheek resting on his chest as she watched the countryside melt into the city they loved, headed to her flat instead of Baker Street. She gripped his coat as she listened to his heartbeat, wondering if wanted to spend the night with her, wondering if he’d given the driver her address with the expectation and hope that she was now filled with.

            When the cab came to a halt, she looked at him, her hand on the center of his chest, “come up?” she asked in a whisper.

            His eyes dropped to her lips, “I was hoping you’d ask. It was either here or spend the night in Baker street, but risk Mrs. Hudson’s intrusion and I—I don’t think either one of us want that.”

            She laughed, climbing out of the cab and watched him pay the driver before he followed her inside, waiting patiently for her to unlock the door.

            But his patience disappeared when once they were inside, not waiting for the door to shut all the way behind them before he grabbed her for another kiss, shoving her coat off her shoulders as she managed to slap on the lights, gasping when he bit her throat, pushing her back against the couch as she fumbled with his trouser buttons.

Gasping his name, she managed to shove the Belstaff and coat off, nearly growling in frustration at the buttons of his waistcoat as he drew her short skirt up, slipping his hands beneath the scrap of lace that was between her thighs. “Usually it’s the women’s clothing that are impossible to get off,” she said, breaking their kiss to focus on undressing him, knowing her world would end if she didn’t touch his skin, if she didn’t kiss his chest, taste him.

“Impatience makes fools of us all,” he told her with that arrogant smile that she adored, pressing kisses all over her face, over her eyelids, her forehead, her temples.

She rolled her eyes, shoving the waistcoat off, “I’ve been patient for three years,” she told him, not caring where it fell as she nearly ripped his shirt buttons off, letting him take it off as she finally, _finally_ pressed her lips to his skin. Tears stung her eyes as he cupped her head against his chest when she sucked on his nipples, all the fear she’d held for him during his “death”, the desperation that had marked her time without him, the torture of the lies threatened to drown her as she filled her senses with him.

Sherlock made her shriek with surprise when he lifted her up in his arms, carrying her to her bedroom tucked upstairs as she pressed kisses to his throat. “That prick didn’t deserve you Molly Hooper,” he told her, “there’s not a man in existence worthy of you.”

Frenzied, blind, hungry they touched each other once they were in her room, called each other’s names with the fervencies of desperate prayer. No consideration, no thought was given to hair or make up, to propriety or restraint as she dropped to her knees in front of him, kissing his chest and stomach along the way, nipping his hipbones, taking him deep into her mouth. His knees buckled, forcing him to collapse on the edge of her bed. She heard his shouts, heard his grunts, felt his hand cup the back of her head and tangle in her hair as she tasted him, and tasted him, felt the power in his hips and thighs, and felt tears running down her cheeks as love overwhelmed her.

She barely heard him, only knew that he lifted her up and tossed her on the bed, saw his midnight, errant curls between her thighs, felt the silky smoothness of his mouth touching her and she thought she had died, saw a burst of light as she watched him, felt him…Oh God how she felt him, her fingers clawing at his arms where he had them wrapped around her thighs, the sounds he made filling her every sense as she arched into his mouth…as she listened to the sounds of his tongue and lips, when she looked at those bright eyes watching her….when she remembered who it was…when she thought about who he was to her…Her orgasm ripped through her, screaming as if being tortured, the sound emanating from the deepest recesses of her heart as she took her pleasure from the man she loved, the man she adored.

Finally…Finally…he crawled over her, pushing her boneless body so she was comfortable, kissing her breasts, her throat, his breath hot, chin and lips wet and she didn’t realize she was crying until he licked her cheek, but she was too lost to care, too filled with his love to care about a world beyond his existence. They shouted in unison when he slipped inside her, making her squirm slightly in discomfort with his girth, feeling his smile against her throat as she told him he was too big, that smile melting away as he pushed inside her, as he started to move.

Foreheads pressed together, sweat and hot breath mingling, she wrapped her legs around his waist, helping him go deeper, harder inside her soul as he held her wrists above her head, pushing…harder…

No control.

No thought.

A complete lack of existence and poignant presence as she watched his eyes, as he grunted with every push inside her, as she accepted him with moans of delight at her surrender.

She was watching him intently when he orgasmed, when his expression changed to one of intense pain, that beautiful mouth falling open, a wordless scream echoing throughout her body as he dropped his face into her throat with the last wave of pleasure wracking his body, stiffening his spine.

Her arms were heavy but she forced them to wrap themselves around him as he collapsed on top of her, satiated, his heavy body pushing her into the mattress. She felt around for the blanket and pulled it on top of them, covering them both as she held him against her heart, squeezing her eyes shut.

She smiled when she realized he’d fallen asleep, and soon she felt herself slipping into exhausted sleep, with Sherlock resting against her heart.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all for reading! I've wanted to write these hidden moments for so long!

            A few days after the wedding and Molly Hooper, newly single Molly Hooper…newly not engaged Molly Hooper…was puttering around her flat, playing with her phone as she chewed her lip, her thoughts filled with Sherlock Holmes. She thought about the days after the wedding, especially the morning after when she’d woken up with his naked body pressed against hers, his eyes mischievous as he’d grabbed the yellow ribbon she’d had in her hair, tying her hands above her head and making love to her with such agonizing, slow movement that she had thought she would die. They’d spent most the day making love, leaving the bed only to sneak down to the kitchen to bring food for one another, wasting an entire can of cool whip and chocolate syrup. He’d left mid-afternoon the second day, and that had been that…

            They’d texted of course, but it had been about work, and she’d wondered if there would be any awkwardness between them when he’d texted her, asking if she was in the lab because he needed her help. But he’d shown up, giving her a warm smile, and they’d moved together as friends, comfortable and at ease, but nothing beyond that. She’d wanted to press him, to ask him where they stood but she didn’t think he’d be able to handle it…She hadn’t seen or heard from him for nearly ten days, so the text asking her to go to Baker Street had been a surprise.

            Slipping into jeans and a jumper, she took the tube to his flat, spending the entire ride wondering what he would bring up, what he wanted. She felt excitement as she walked up the steps, imagining his smile, imagining the taste of his welcoming kiss, the way his arms would feel holding her against his warmth. Her future was suddenly bright, a promise that beckoned her instead of making her balk.

            Dealing with the fallout of the broken engagement had been painful. She had eventually forced herself to tell her mum and friends, who’d all rallied around her, somehow assuming that Tom had broken off their engagement. She’d even gotten calls and messages from his friends and family, mostly asking if she was doing all right with the break off, and if she needed anything from them. Their texts and concerns had reminded her she had to go about the business of a broken engagement, a wedding called off…all the things she had to cancel or return…all the refunds she had to issue…the business of a marriage broken just in the nick of time.

            She barely managed not to fall when she walked through the door of the flat, barely managed not to gasp or clutch her chest as her heart shattered, as she felt her soul whither, shrivel. There he was, sitting in his armchair with a woman in his lap, snogging, his hand between her thighs, under a shockingly short skirt. “Sorry!” she managed to squeak with an awkward laugh, “the door was open!”

            The woman unfolded herself and Molly recognized Mary’s maid of honor, the one that had been clinging to Sherlock the entire wedding. “Molly,” Sherlock’s voice was deep and raspy, the intimacy of it familiar, beckoning memories of that same huskiness in the middle of the night, whispered against her naked body, “come on in,” he grinned at her as the woman stood up and he followed suit, adjusting his clothes, “you remember Janine.”

            “Yes, of course, hi!” Molly’s voice sounded high pitch to her own ears, as if she had swallowed an entire tank of helium as she glanced down to make sure her entrails weren’t spilling on the floor in front of her.

            “Hi!” Janine grinned, her lipstick smeared, most of it around Sherlock’s mouth and Molly prayed for death, prayed for a sinkhole to open up where she was standing so she could fall through it.

            “Uhm, Molly,” she managed, “I’m Molly. Hooper.”

            “Nice to see you again,” Janine smiled, “well I’ll leave you two to discuss business,” she grinned, turning her attention to Sherlock as Molly ducked into the kitchen in search of water, hearing the kiss between the happy couple, the erotic sighs and secret chuckles that Molly had thought belonged to her. She drank water just to have something to do, quickly setting the glass down before Sherlock came into the kitchen, stuffing her hands into her pockets so he wouldn’t see the way they were trembling, checking to make sure there were no tears streaming down her eyes.

            _Evisceration_.

            _Vivisection_.

            She nearly collapsed when she remembered the way he’d licked her tears away that night. That cursed night. That....that tremendous mistake.

            He walked into the kitchen after she heard Janine’s footsteps going down the stairs, “enjoying your day off?” he asked casually.

            “Oh yeah,” she cleared her throat, “just running- running errands when you texted. So, what do you need?”

            “Tea?” he asked as he filled the kettle and she wished he would turn to her, that he would tell her she had an insane imagination and take her into his arms and make it all better. Or she’d wake up from a nightmare and find him in bed with her, and they would laugh together when she told him about the dream as he tucked her against him.

            “I’m perfect. Fit. Good, yeah, good,” she managed, “uhm, I’m in a bit of a hurry actually,” she lied, her voice wobbling, “so what do you need?”        

            She barely registered the question he asked about one of his experiments, didn’t know what answers she gave him, trying not to remember what he had told her the last time she’d asked him what he needed. Molly closed her eyes against the memories of his soft voice, of his kiss, of the way he had stood in that stairwell and told her she mattered the most…the look in his eyes when he’d told her…

            Somehow, she survived their meeting.

Somehow, she walked away.

Somehow, she made it back to her flat with her entrails trailing behind her.

            She sank to the ground in front of her door, and stared into nothingness, wondering where she would find the strength to move on this time.

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock methodically checked the doors of 221B, making sure they were all locked tight, all the curtains drawn allowing only a sliver of daylight to filter through the window. Eventually, he was going to make his drug habit known, the entire purpose of this was to have the world, especially Magnussun, believe that he was a drug addict, that it was his only pressure point.

            But today…today…this first time in a long time, he needed to wallow in the shame that came with the needle and the slip of foil, needed the shame to overwhelm him as he sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace and unpacked his poisonous paraphernalia.

            This first time, he needed it, and he needed it to sting and sear his soul, needed all the darkness to envelope him the way it always did, to clear out the last vestiges of humanity left in him to carry on. He filled the needle with poison and told himself this was for the best. Tied the tourniquets around his bicep to make the vein jump and his eyes were stinging as the horror on Molly’s face swirled to the forefront of his mind, the marrow deep disappointment and hurt, the confusion as she’d tried to hide them from him, the way her entire body had been trembling. He positioned the head of the needle against the thick, healthy vein and saw the way she’d nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to get away from him.

He pressed the plunger and knew the high would be nothing compared to how he felt when Molly belonged to him.

            Sherlock felt the poison hit his system and bloom like a gunshot wound throughout his body, felt himself collapse back on the floor and stare up at the ceiling, watching, detached as the hours passed, as the light shifted and all he could think about was how much he’d hurt Molly, repeating the lie that this was the best thing for her. That if he was going after Magnussun, he couldn’t risk revealing his greatest weakness, his greatest pressure point.

            _Charles Augustus Magnussun._

_C.A.M._

He frowned slightly, his addled mind conjuring up one of the telegrams from the wedding, something about…poppet? But he couldn’t remember, didn’t care to remember, Molly…that’s all that mattered…Molly… _Molly_.

            As he sat up to refill his needle with poison again, feeling the high starting to wear off, he began thinking about pressure points as he searched for another healthy vein to destroy, another positive thing about himself that he had to sacrifice…Sacrifice for what, he didn’t know, and didn’t care to know at that point. Because none of it seemed worth it, and he didn’t seem worth any of it.

            Protecting Molly, that’s what he was doing, and that’s what he had to remind himself, that’s what he clung to. If Magnussun ever got wind of how much Molly meant to him, she would be in direct line of fire and he would rather die a thousand deaths than to see Molly hurt. And if Molly knew the truth, knew what he was doing….she was too smart and cared too much, she would give herself away with a single glance in his direction. So he had to hurt her, turned that love in her eyes into pure hatred and disgust.

He pushed the poison in his vein and heard his own maniacal, unsettling laughter fill the flat. He was hurting Molly more than anyone at that point, and he doubted anyone else was capable of hurting her as much as he did…but at least she’d be in the world, at least he could watch her move and thrive whereas if anyone found out she was his heart….

            Moriarty’s shadow in his mind palace laughed, leaning so casually against the doors of Molly’s locked suite, “I will burn the _heart_ out of you,” he laughed.

Fortunately, Moriarty hadn’t known who his heart was…

            His heart was a diminutive, unassuming, mousey little pathologist with brown hair and brown eyes, who had atrocious taste in clothing and didn’t own a single article that wasn’t a hew in the rainbow, who snorted when she laughed and could never time her morbid jokes properly.

            That was his heart, and he would protect it all cost.

            So, he had hurt her deliberately, pushed her away from him, the excuse of Janine coming along at a perfect time, both his key to Magnussun’s apartment and a way to protect Molly. He was going to keep pushing poison in his veins and let the world know that his greatest weakness was drugs, not his heart…

             Human error, he told himself.

            _Human error_.

 


	6. Chapter 6

            Molly ended the call with John Watson, feeling void of any emotion, positive or negative, a curious silence in her mind as she looked at her phone. There was a part of her that was trying to convince her the phone call hadn’t happened, that John Watson hadn’t told her he was bringing Sherlock in for a drug test, that she was going to wake up any second now.

            She sat heavily on the stool in front of the microscope while the other half of her brain reminded her of the first time Sherlock had gone to rehab. Back in those university days, after months of silent smoking together, when Mycroft Holmes had appeared, looking imperious with suspicion in his mind. “I would happily tell you where my brother is recovering and grant you access to him, through phone and in-person visits,” he had told her, “however, I will do this only with the understanding that you will look after my little brother and ensure his sobriety. I assure you, Miss Hooper, I am capable of bringing down the entire wrath of the British government with me should my wishes, as far as my brother is concerned, are not fulfilled.”

            She’d been terrified of course, stammering as she’d asked him to clarify, “you mean, you just want me to promise to be a- a good _friend_?”

            “Precisely,” he’d answered, “I can offer economic compensation for this undertaking, of course. I can only imagine a medical student with your ambitions must incur a lot of debt to achieve those goals.”

            “Uh,” she had felt insulted but petrified to let him know she was insulted, “no, no that’s—that’s ok. I don’t mind. I don’t mind being his friend, I mean.”

            And she really hadn’t, and had even forged a rather uneven and unlikely friendship with Mycroft Holmes over the years. She would never forget the car he had sent to her flat the day after that particular conversation, and she’d been driven to the rehabilitation facility where Sherlock was being looked after. She’d found him sitting in the gardens, underneath a rose bush, nearly completely hidden from sight. He’d been in his pajamas and a ratty tartan dressing gown, his hair disheveled, eyes closed. She’d thought he’d been meditating, impressed by the change in his thinking about meditation from knocking it in casual conversation to embracing it. But those extraordinary eyes had opened, and he’d told her off for interrupting him, as he’d been thinking about a case he’d read about a swimmer who’d drowned.

            The relapse had been hard, and she remembered the way he’d practically begged her not to take him to the hospital, to keep it between them. They’d struck a deal: she’d taken care of him in her apartment as long as she got to tell Mycroft. He’d agreed rather reluctantly and had spent the following two weeks going through withdrawals with Molly nursing him. Sherlock had fallen off the wagon spectacularly, flushing four years of sobriety down the drain in a single moment of madness. She’d pressed wet cloths to his forehead and had seen that he was terrified she would admonish him, put him down for his weakness, for his human failings and frailty. But she hadn’t been able to, only aching for him, wondering what demons drove him to those needles, to that poison.

            She had thought he was done after that, that he would win his battle in perpetuity after John Watson had moved in with him, not even a month after he’d regained his sobriety and found the flat on Baker street. She remembered Mycroft’s phone call telling her that Sherlock’s new roommate had refused to take the bribe, and how Mycroft had emailed Molly a packet of information about Captain John Watson, M.D., formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier, who’d also studied at Bart’s with Mike.

            Molly had stopped worrying about him then, to a point anyway, because she always worried about Sherlock. He was in her blood…

            Even when he broke her heart, even when he broke his promises, even when he shattered her dreams, she still worried about him, about his health, about his existence. Because he was her soul…She always recalled the Emily Bronte quote, “whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

            When John and Mary walked in, being trailed by two men she didn’t know and one man she knew but didn’t recognize, she wanted to scream. He looked so gaunt, the dark circles beneath his eyes deep and horrific, the baggy clothes not belonging on his body for so many different reasons. She hadn’t been able to talk to him, to look at him, disappointment filling every fiber of her being, angry at what he had done to himself, assaulted by the memories of his hand between Janine’s long, toned legs…

            All she could think was that she would’ve been able to keep him sober, she would’ve loved him so long, so hard, so completely that he wouldn’t have filled the void in his heart with drugs. She knew how to love him better than anyone, she knew how to love him better than Janine…he was her soul. Her soul…

            _My soul…_

            She handed him the specimen cup without word, silently watching him disappear into the bathroom, the fire and liveliness in his eyes dimmed from the poison he used on himself. “Where’s your first aid kit, Mols?” Mary’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

            “Oh, sorry,” she murmured. She walked to the cabinet, trying not to show how her hand shook uncontrollably when she grabbed the kit and handed it to Mary. She looked at John, “where did you find him?”

            “A doss house,” he murmured, quickly telling her about their neighbor’s son and how he’d almost literally stumbled upon Sherlock. The topic of conversation chose that moment to reenter the room, looking petulant as he handed her the specimen cup, the attitude of a child caught red handed but too spoiled to understand reprimand, “he claims to be doing research for a case.”

            “I keep telling you I was under cover!” Sherlock insisted, leaning against the counter.

            Molly looked at him, looked at her love and wanted to vomit as anger burned like acid in her stomach, flowing in waves as her eyes traced his flat, blood-shot eyes, his dirty, matted black curls, his filthy clothes, grateful for the long sleeves that covered the track marks marring his forearms.

            Her love.

            _My love_.

            _My soul._

            The man who had held her in his arms so many nights, the man who moved inside her while looking so deep into her eyes that she had thought he stole her very self for himself…knew that he had. The man who woke her up during those stolen moments together with a smile, with a kiss, with his broad palm and long fingers whispering across her skin, touching her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids…the man who had buried his face against her neck, surging inside her, pumping himself furiously into her body as he’d told her he needed her, he needed her, _he needed her_ …

            She walked away from him, leaving him and John to squabble as she ran the tests to determine what was in his system. Molly vaguely heard the arguments that kept bubbling between them, heard the way he insisted it was for a case…it was research for a case…that they were worrying for nothing, that they were upset about it for nothing.

            When the computer spit up the results, she knew she would never experience that kind of anger and disappointment for the rest of her life. She was grateful for that, the cocktail of emotion leaving her speechless and literally vibrating with anger. “Well?” John looked at her, as if hoping he had been unable to tell whether or not Sherlock had been lying to him, using her as a gauge because she’d learned to see through him so long ago, “is he clean?”

            “Clean?” she scoffed.

            Nothing was clean.

            Nothing would ever be clean.

            They were both contaminated now, they were both doomed…now.

            _Clean_.

            She stared into his eyes, saw the way his lids drooped as if he couldn’t keep them open, the tell-tale sign of a drug user…

            _Clean_.

            _My soul…my soul…what have you done?_

            Her hand moved before she could stop it, her palm stinging as it made contact with his cheek, watched the way his head snapped, shock blossoming in his eyes as she hit him again and again, tears stinging her eyes. Words of admonishment left her lips, and she wondered if he knew she didn’t include herself in the friends she spoke of, the friends he’d betrayed. “Say you’re sorry,” she insisted and knew she didn’t care about herself, knew no apology in the world could sow back her soul together, knew she wasn’t his friend.

They were never friends.

            He reached up to his jaw and she saw something flash in his eyes, something that looked eerily like regret and the ache she felt in her own bones, saw _something_ that he quickly hid behind an insult meant to be a dagger in her breast, well-aimed, as he always knew exactly how to strike. “Sorry your engagement’s over, though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring,” he said, rubbing his jaw and cheek.

            It was as if he had poured ice all over her, frozen her in pain, in a glacier made with his precise venom, pretending he didn’t know her engagement was over…pretending he hadn’t watched her end it and go home with him…to fuck _him_ , to comfort _him_ because he’d _needed_ her…She had given up her future for him, for that temporary ease she had been able to give him because he’d looked so broken leaving the wedding…Her future, sacrificed at his feet, to give _him_ five minutes of comfort…

            With one sentence, with that disregard, with a single breath he deprived their relationship, their existence together, as meaningless, worthless. And he had done it deliberately, with intent, with knowing disregard for her, “stop it,” her voice trembled, and she knew she didn’t have to worry about tears, knew that she had cried enough for him to last a lifetime, that she wasn’t capable of any more shed in his name, “just stop it.”

            He looked into her eyes for a brief second, that mirrored horror in his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was them either, but John interrupted them, and she was grateful for the distraction, wanting to walk away from him but goddamn her, she couldn’t.

            Those glimpses…those glimpses of truth held her captive at his mercy.

            She wanted to be angry with him, wanted the illogic of anger to continue washing over her but she knew him too well, was too trained in logic, in _his_ logic to turn away from him now, to wash her hands of him. Something held her there, something made her watch the way he spoke with John and the drug addict with the sprained wrist Mary was tending to, making her smile when she realized Sherlock prided himself on the deductions Billy Wiggins was making.

            She studied his face closely, but he gave nothing away, the proximity to his body, in that relaxed state, in the way he draped himself back on the counter made her want to crawl into his clothes and hold him and be held by him. Some part of her imagined that she could feel his body heat, feel the vibrations of his heart, feel every quiver of his muscle, and she wanted to press herself into that warmth. That familiar warmth, that familiar skin.

            But she forced herself to remember Janine as his phone rang, forced herself to remember the sound of Janine’s moans as they’d kissed good-bye that day in his flat, forced herself to remember his hand between Janine’s thighs as he answered the phone, walking away from them all as if nothing was wrong.

 

* * *

 

            Whatever excuse he gave John seemed to work and Sherlock managed to slip away from him to find Molly sitting in her office, frowning at her computer screen as her finger absently moved the mouse in circles. She had her chin in her hand, looking so thoughtful, so beautiful.

            He knocked on the door jamb to get her attention, “Molly,” he said her name on a whisper.

            “I’m busy, Sherlock,” she muttered absently, without even glancing up, but he saw the way her entire body tensed, the way she seemed to go into battle mode as if anticipating a fight, anticipating him hurting her. Like he always did… _Christ._

            “Just…give me a moment,” he walked in, shutting the door behind him and leaned against it.

            “I don’t have one,” she said, still without looking up at him, turning in her chair to reach for a file behind her, “aren’t you supposed to be headed home with John?”

            “He’s waiting for me upstairs,” he murmured, filled with such self-hatred for the pain he’d caused Molly, “he can hang on a little longer. Molly…” but he didn’t know what else to say, taking a step forward, “I need to explain—”

            She shook her head, “nope, nope. Nothing to explain, nothing to talk about.”

            He rubbed his face roughly, “I _need_ you to listen to me—”

            “No _Sherlock_ , I don’t _need_ to listen to you,” she exploded, standing up, “I don’t need to understand anything you do. I don’t need _anything_ from you. You don’t owe me anything and I certainly don’t owe you a damned thing, not anymore. So why don’t you go back to whatever hellhole you buried yourself in and leave me _be_!”

            He was grinding his teeth into nubs, watching her anger, her vehemence and he was torn between impatience with her inability to listen to him, and the way his mind shred to pieces at having hurt her so deeply. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, bury his head in her lap and feel her fingers in his hair, feel the comfort she always offered him. But Sherlock knew he had severed those ties, had purposefully made her hate him, hurt her to get her to this point. He was incapable of understanding _why_ he needed her to listen, to forgive him, he just knew that something inside him was burning.  

He couldn’t live with himself, couldn’t live with her hatred, her anger…Not anymore. “Please,” he cleared his throat, “just—just hear me out Molly, I don’t expect you…to forgive me but I need you to know, this is all for a case. _Everything_ is for a case. This…this isn’t me.”

            She watched him for a few moments, her expression unreadable, disguised behind a mask of utter detached serenity that made him feel uneasy, making him realize that throughout their entire relationship, their friendship, she had _let_ him read her expression. There was something unsettling about the epiphany, that he hadn’t been deducing anything about this woman, she had let him read whatever she’d wanted him to. The amount of control she had over him….

            “It certainly looks like you,” she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her chest, “it’s talking like you, using your words, repeating your history,” she shrugged.

            “What can I do to prove to you otherwise?”      

            She laughed, an ugly, grating sound that felt like a vice around his heart, stopping it from beating in his chest, “I don’t think there’s anything you _can_ do Sherlock, I’m done for you,” she shrugged again, “I’m done.”

            “This isn’t _me_ ,” he repeated before leaving her, rubbing the center of his chest and wishing he had another hit to take away the sting of Molly’s anger.

            He locked her away, padlocked her suite in his mind palace, knowing he would need to function on all cylinders for his meeting with Magnussun.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more for sticking with me on this ride! But we must go through darkness to find the light so trust me as we go through this tunnel together!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you guys are amazing, here's a fast update!

            Sherlock noticed the lights of his mind palace flickering on, as if the entire place was connected to a faulty generator that couldn’t quite light up the rooms. Everything flickered, the walls looked like they were alive, crawling with creatures that threatened his life, suddenly pitching him into terrifying darkness. Confused, terrified, shattered he saw Mary…

            His friend Mary… _Mary_ …Holding the gun…Mary shooting him…

            _Liar._

The word reverberated in his mind palace, and he heard the sound of massive waves that seemed to threaten the walls of his mind. He felt the tsunami that intimidated him, that wanted to end him, drawing a scream from his soul as he tried to on, to bring back the light.

            And there she was, his light, looking serene even though he couldn’t see her. He felt her, felt the strength she always gave him, felt all that she completed in him, all the strength he lacked freely given by her.

            “Molly!” he cried out, blind, terrified, “Molly! I can’t see! Help me!”

            “Hush darling,” her voice was soft, filled with compassion. This was the Molly he kept locked away, the Molly that was his love, that was his physical heart, not the lab coat clad doctor that had helped him fall backwards.

            “I c-can’t see” God he was weak, useless, “Molly! I can’t see- I’m so scared,” he tore his throat, “I can’t see!” he screamed.

            “Shh,” she soothed, “It’s alright, I’m here now, it’s ok. I’ll keep you safe.”

            “You’re not here, you _can’t_ be here!” he panted.

            “Of course, she’s not here,” he heard Mycroft’s sneer, “why should she be? After all you’ve put her through, after all you’ve done to her?”

            He collapsed, the pain in his chest taking his breath away, his legs going away from under him and he wasn’t sure whether it was the pain from the gunshot would or the knowledge that Molly wasn’t his…he’d lost Molly.

            “Sherlock you daft cow,” she breathed in his ear, and he felt her take his cold hand in hers, her breath warm against his ear, “you never listen when I’m talking,” she lifted his hand, her lips moving against his ear, “you listen but don’t hear,” her laugh was warm, “I live _in_ you darling,” she pressed her fingers against his and felt a light switch, “just turn on the light.”

            Consciousness hit him like a wall, his eyes opening wide with a gasp, staring up at the blinding, sterile lights of the hospital ceiling, hearing the rhythmic beeping of the machine fill the room…He wanted to speak, to cry out for Molly but he couldn’t…there was something his throat….he moved his hand to claw at it but his arm was hurting, the needles digging into his skin…

            But she was there, deliberately putting her face into his view, “shhh,” Molly hummed, taking his hand in hers and forcing it to stay on the bed, using the other hand to feather her fingers across his forehead, down to his nose and effectively distracting him from the panic that swallowed him, “shh,” she soothed “you’re alright darling,” she murmured, “but I need you to calm down right now, you have a breathing tube,” she gasped and the pain in his chest had nothing to do with the gunshot as her eyes flooded with tears, “calm down,” she told him, “I’ll get the doctor in to remove it.”

            She turned to walk but he gripped her wrist, his eyes wide with fear, fear he couldn’t control, fear of the ease with which he’d given himself to death terrified him. Somehow, she saw all that, understanding his fear and didn’t call him a coward for it. She leaned down, kissing him directly between his eyes, holding the contact, “I’m not leaving,” she murmured, “Just going to put my head through the door and get someone in here to take the tube out so you can talk,” she kissed his forehead again, “I’m not going anywhere,” she repeated, and he trusted her to let her wrist go.

            His eyes followed her as she kept her promise, poking her head through and calling someone before coming back to him. The nurse came bustling in and Molly kept his hand in hers, kept his gaze as the nurse extubated him, giving him strength to endure the pain, the discomfort of the procedure.

            “Not me,” he whispered hoarsely, “not me.”

            She sat on the edge of the hospital bed, stroking his hair as tears streamed down her cheeks, holding his hand tightly against her chest. He watched her in terror, in growing anguish, hating how sadness looked on her face, how anguish destroyed her features, made her unrecognizable. Molly was sunshine, pure sunshine…filled with smiles, with laughter, with the grins and snorting with laughter.

            How many times had he made her cry?

            “Not me,” he repeated.

            “You’ll tell me all when you’re ready,” she nodded, “you’ll explain why you didn’t trust me, why you put us through this.”

            “Promise,” he managed, finding words out of his shredded throat, “protect you. Not _me_.”

            She pressed her lips to his and he felt alive.

* * *

 

            Molly was standing outside Sherlock’s hospital room, falling asleep on her feet but unwilling to leave the hospital, when she heard her name being shouted from down the hall. “Where is Molly Hooper! I want to speak with Molly Hooper!”

            She perked up when she recognized the commanding tone of the one and only Violet Holmes, Sherlocks mother, who was rushing down the hallway with his father following, John Watson looking as if he were about to trip over his own feet. “Dr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes” Molly called, walking fast to meet his parents before they got to his room. She didn’t want them to be shocked by his appearance, didn’t want them to see him without preparation, mostly because she knew their shock and anguish would affect him.

            “Molly!” Dr. Holmes rushed towards her, “where is he! What’s happened! Mycroft’s barely told us anything except someone’s shot my boy! You seem to be the only sensible person around him! Where is he! Where’s my boy! What happened?”  
            Molly held her hands tightly, Mr. Holmes eyes focused on hers, waiting impatiently for her to tell them why their son was in the hospital. “He’s alright now,” she told them, keeping her voice as calm as she could, “he’s with the doctor, and they asked me to step outside for a few moments. He’s remarkably strong. The doctors are optimistic that he’ll make a full recovery with no residual affects but it will take time to heal.”

            “What happened?” Mr. Holmes asked her.        

            She glanced at John Watson, wondering how much she could say in front of him, how many lies she could tell to keep the identity of the shooter a secret. Sherlock had told her about Mary, told her the truth about what had happened in Magnussun’s private offices, how he’d gotten shot…but he’d asked her to keep his secret until he knew what he was going to do with the information. “He and Dr. Watson were working on a case,” she answered, wanting to smile as she felt Dr. Holmes stroking the back of her hand the way her son often did, “they—they had to break into someone’s flat, I’m not sure about the details,” she glanced at John, “he was shot. The bullet—the bullet traveled directly between two of his ribs, missed his heart by a hair,” he’d called it surgery, “He uhm, he crashed a few times on the way to hospital.”

            “He _crashed_?” Dr. Holmes looked like she was about to faint, her husband wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressed her to his side.

            “He’s fine now,” Molly repeated, “I promise. You can see him as soon as the doctor leaves him.”

            After a few minutes they were allowed to enter the room, but Molly chose to stay outside, sitting on the hard, plastic chair in the waiting area, tucking her legs under her, letting her head fall back against the wall and resting her tired eyes.

            She tried to imagine a life where gunshot wounds and espionage and life-threatening secrets weren’t a part of her daily life, imagined a life where she would wake up, go to work, do her thing, and head home without her heart breaking into millions of pieces throughout. She imagined a life where she wasn’t in love with Sherlock Holmes, but she couldn’t.

            Didn’t want to.

            Molly had been in the emergency ward, consulting with one of the doctors about something, when the call had come in, alerting the A&E staff that a male in his early 30’s was being brought in, gunshot wound to the chest, weak vitals, crashing. She’d somehow known it was Sherlock, had somehow felt it in her bones that it was him that was being rushed in…he’d been shot.

            _Her soul…_

            Her world had ended when she’d heard the machines flatlining, had watched through the surgery door and seen the doctors walk away from him… giving up on him…declaring time of death.

            _No…_

            And she’d stared at his lifeless body, watched those eyes that were shut forever, that would never open again to reveal his intelligence, his wit, his magnificent heart…she’d stared at his lifeless body and known she had died with him too.

            _This isn’t happening._

            _This isn’t us._

            But she should’ve had more faith in him, should’ve known he wouldn’t give up so easily and she had collapsed in relief when his heart started beating again, the rhythmic beeping of the machines the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. A nurse had come along and helped her to her feet, she’d been so weak with relief, so breathless with it the nurse had offered to bring her an oxygen mask.

Molly hadn’t left the hospital since, had only left his bedside to run to the locker room downstairs to change her clothes into the spares she kept for emergencies. The ICU staff let her stay with him even though she wasn’t family, and none of them had questioned her right to be there, to stay by his side, to greet him when he woke up. The staff downstairs hadn’t questioned her either, giving her the time off she needed, consulting her when they needed her opinion and expertise.

            Molly hadn’t rushed hitwim into telling her what had happened, hadn’t been able to hold the anger burning in her heart for the way he’d hurt her, hadn’t been able to keep herself detached from him. Instead, she’d let herself love him as he lay in the hospital bed, in pain, pale and apologetic as he gripped her hand like his life depended on it. She didn’t bring her broken heart with her in the room, knew it would be waiting for her when she left.

            When Janine had come for a visit, carrying a bundle of newspapers and magazines bearing headlines that made Molly’s jaw drop, she’d run down to the morgue under the pretense of work. She hadn’t been able to look at the other woman for fear that her pain, her jealousy, her heartbreak would be evident. “Just uh, don’t keep him talking for long,” she’d murmured before practically running away, only returning when Sherlock’s nurse had buzzed her, telling her that Sherlock was driving them crazy, asking for her.

            He’d finally told her what had happened, explained to her about Janine’s connection to Magnussun, told her about pressure points and needing Magnussun to believe his greatest weakness was drugs. She didn’t ask him why he’d used Janine against her, didn’t ask him why he hadn’t just told her what was happening, what his plan was because she had a feeling she already knew. She’d pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist and he’d cupped her jaw, looking into her eyes as if he was trying to tell her something beyond what he could say in words.

            And she’d understood, or she thought she understood. She thought he was trying to tell her how sorry he was, and his long-winded explanation of what pressure points were, and how Magnussun operated made her believe he was trying to tell her she was his pressure point, that he’d wanted to protect her. She had nuzzled his palm as he stroked her face, telling her about Mary, about what he thought had led Mary into shooting him.

            Molly took a deep breath when the door to Sherlock’s room opened and Mr. Holmes walked out. He was a tall man, carrying his age on him with grace and serenity, a straight back with silver hair and eyes darker than his sons. Sherlock looked remarkably like his father, and a lump formed in her throat imagining what Sherlock would look like at his father’s age, grateful that he would make it to that age, that his heart had started beating again…

            “He’s asking for you, my dear,” he told her, “well, he is _insisting_ that you rejoin him.”

            She laughed slightly, unfolding herself from the chair, “thank you Mr. Holmes.”

            “Are you alright? Dr. Watson told us you haven’t left his side for the nearly five days,” he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

            “I’m fine,” she told him, feeling warmth spread through her at his concern, “I’m just so incredibly glad he is too.”

            “He’s very lucky to have you in his life,” Mr. Holmes patted her on the back, and she followed him back to the room, hands in her pockets. When she walked in, she saw that Dr. Holmes had her son’s hand clutched tightly in her palms, resting them against her chest as they talked, John standing at the foot of his bed with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Her eyes quickly took stock of Sherlock, and she couldn’t help but think that his skin tone matched the stark whiteness of the sheets he lay on, dark circles under his eyes, that bandage on his chest breaking her heart. But his vitals were steady, his heartbeat strong, his eyes clear, and his voice getting stronger.

            She leaned against the back wall, and she found a smile for him when his eyes found hers, as if reassuring himself that she was there, drawing strength from her. She watched the way he patiently let his mother touch him, watched as he didn’t pull away from her hold, from the way she kept stroking his hair back from his face, answering their questions calmly, vaguely explaining what had happened.

            They left not long after that, promising to visit again soon, hugging her tightly before they walked out. “How do you know his parents?” John asked quietly, giving Sherlock and his parents privacy before they left.

            The corner of her mouth lifted, remembering her first encounter with the formidable Dr. Holmes, Ph.D., and Mr. Holmes. It had been at the rehab facility, a few days after he’d been admitted. She’d brought him a massive chocolate cake, thinking they would share it under the rose bush, knowing he would appreciate the distraction. Molly had found him sitting with his parents in his room, head in his hands as they’d talked to him, Dr. Holmes questioning her as intensely as Mycroft had, frightening her even more than Mycroft. After that, especially after she’d helped him fake his death, she and the Holmes’ had become closer, and she was even invited out to have tea with them on several occasions.

            All this passed through her mind as she answered John’s question with a simple, “well, I’ve known Sherlock since uni,” and shrugged a shoulder as if it explained everything.

            “Go home and get some rest dear, don’t let him keep you hostage here,” Dr. Holmes murmured, kissing her cheek before sweeping out of the room.

            “Come here,” Sherlock held out his hand for her after John had left. She walked over to him, lacing their fingers together and he pulled her down to him and she kissed him without thinking about it, the action as natural as breathing. There was a part of her that liked keeping his secret, _their_ secret, that enjoyed having them all to herself, without the scrutiny of anyone else regarding their affection for each other. When there were other people around them, they never touched, never said anything beyond plutonic friendship but when they were alone…

            “I need you to do something for me,” he murmured, “I need you to help me get out of here.”

            She frowned at him, “what? What are you talking about? Sherlock, you’ve been _shot_. You’re not going anywhere, darling.”

            “This can’t wait,” he told her, “John and Mary are in danger,” he tightened his hand, “it won’t take me long to settle this between them. But I can’t do what I need to do from here.”     

            Molly was shaking her head, “absolutely not.”

            “Please,” he breathed, his eyes such a vivid blue against the starkness of the white sheets, against the white of his skin. He brought her hand to his lips, “Janine…Janine was here earlier, when you were in the morgue.”

            He gripped her hand tighter and Molly wondered if he knew she was trying to loosen his grip, knew she was trying to get away from him as Janine’s name was brought up. “Oh?” she breathed as he rested her hand against his chest.

            “She broke our engagement,” he tried smiling at her, “and she’s telling every newspaper that will listen about our torrid affair and all my kinks in bed.”

            “I saw the headlines,” she told him.

            “You know what I miss?” he told her after a few minutes of quiet, his voice gruff from more than the damage that breathing tube had done, “I miss the way you spread your fingers over my chest, like you need to feel my heartbeat. I love the way you touch me.”

            “I miss touching you,” she told him reluctantly, “you should’ve trusted me Sherlock, you should’ve told me what you were planning. I could’ve helped.”

            He shook his head, “no Molly,” he murmured, “anyone with half a brain would’ve figured out you’re my greatest pressure point, just by spending one moment watching the way you look at me.”

            “And how do I look at you?” she asked him, spreading her fingers across his skin the way he had described, feeling his heartbeat in her palm, feeling the aching familiarity of his skin, practically feeling him on her tongue.

            The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, “like I’m worth something.”


	8. Chapter 8

            Molly sat in the hospital cafeteria, drinking her black coffee like her life depended on it, reading the text she’d gotten from Sherlock. But his name had been changed to William Scott on her phone, in case someone noticed that she was texting Sherlock Holmes, who had been officially missing for 18 hours. It had been his idea, grabbing her phone, quickly unlocking it despite the password protection and had changed it before she’d left him that morning.

            “That’s a bit paranoid, isn’t it?” she’d asked, sitting next to him on her bed, gingerly removing the tape around his bandage to check the wound. She’d helped him escape, with some assistance from his homeless network, and they’d brought him to her flat. But she was terrified for his health, had driven him crazy with her insistence that he do what he needed to do and quickly.

            “A bit,” he answered, wincing slightly as she tugged the tapes completely off his skin to replace it with a fresh one.

            “Sorry,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss the center of his chest before putting on the new one, “Sherlock, just promise me, as soon as you’re done—”

            “I’ll go straight back to the hospital,” he finished.

            “We’ve had this conversation before,” she laughed slightly.

            “Someone once told me I hear but don’t listen,” he murmured, lifting his hand and cupping her cheek in his broad palm.

            “Whoever said it was smart,” she’d put the tapes on, spending a few minutes simply looking down at him, laying there in her bed, where he belonged, “and for the love of Christ Sherlock, if you feel your heart rate is becoming rapid, if it gets harder to breath—”

            “Internal bleeding, call an ambulance,” he finished, “this is the part where I would lift my head off the pillow and kiss you, and tell you that I hear you Molly. If I hear nothing else in my life, I hear _you_.”

            She had smiled, methodically taping down the bandage on his skin, “Sherlock—” she cleared her throat, “are you sure about Mary?” her eyes found his and she let him see her fear, “are you sure you can trust her?”

            “I’m as certain as I’ve ever been,” he told her, “believe in me.”

            She took a deep breath now, watching John Watson with Greg Lestrade jog across the cafeteria towards her. She locked her phone, sipping her coffee, “any news from Sherlock?” she asked them, thinking she was becoming a good actress. Her shock at hearing he was missing yesterday had been another extremely well-done performance. She had just driven Sherlock to her flat, opening the window and breaking the blinds in his hospital room to make it look like he’d ghosted out that way. She’d told John that she’d just come back from lunch, even collapsed into a chair when he told her Sherlock was missing.

            “Nothing,” Greg told her, “Molly, what do you know about his bolt holes?”

            “What do you mean?” she blinked at the two men, wondering if she was laying it on a bit too thick as she sipped her coffee.

            “Do you know where they are? Has he told you about them?” John asked impatiently.

            “My spare bedroom,” she answered, “well, my bedroom. We agreed he needs the space,” she continued, just as they’d practiced. Of course, she was always in the bedroom with him, had been laying against him all night after they’d helped him escape the hospital, but John and Greg didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to know how both of them had finally gotten a restful night’s sleep, the best since the night of John and Mary’s wedding.

              The two had left her immediately after that, thinking that her information was useless, that there was no need to check her flat for Sherlock because surely, Molly would tell them where he was. She picked up her phone, quickly texting William Scott that she’d diverted (H)enry and Gideon away from her flat. His response was a single “Good” followed by “when are you coming home”?

            She smiled, gathering up her lunch to head back downstairs to finish working. She didn’t respond to his text, didn’t know how to, didn’t know what she was doing or how she was feeling about him, about them, about anything. The secrets and lies that were surfacing, Sherlock’s, Mary’s, hers…it was like her entire existence was filled with them now and she was starting to lose track.

            _What a tangled web we weave._

            As wonderful as it was having him back in her bed, having his assurance that Janine had been a ruse, that their relationship had been a way to protect Molly and a way to get access to Magnussun…it still stung that he had kept it from her, still made the center of her chest ache when she thought about him in bed with her. With another woman…

            Molly slapped on her gloves and got to work, reminding herself that Sherlock hadn’t owed her anything, not any kind of loyalty. He wasn’t her boyfriend after all, he wasn’t even her friend. He hadn’t cheated on Molly, that would require them to have a formal, romantic, spoken relationship. What she and Sherlock had…she paused in the middle of her dissection, frowning slightly, what did they have?

            He was her soulmate, she knew that. He was her love, she also knew that.

            He had been her friend, her best friend, and she supposed he still was.

            But beyond that…whatever they were to each other was as hidden from view as their physical attraction was to anyone who spent time with them. She knew their mutual friends and colleagues knew she pined for him, she’d never made that a secret nor did she care to. But the secret was that it wasn’t all one-sided, because she’d seen Sherlock’s eyes, felt Sherlock’s heartbeat…felt his pulse, saw his pupils dilate…felt the sting of his anger and jealousy…felt the physical presence of it when they made love…

            With that logic, if she got hurt, was stung by his affair with Janine then she had cheated on him too, by being with Tom…

            Her phone began ringing and she threw her gloves away, shoving the goggles off her face before pulling it out of her back pocket, “Sh—William? Everything all right?”

            His chuckle was dark, warm in her ear, “I always hated William, until just now. I might change it permanently.”

            “34 years of being Sh and now you want to be William,” she shook her head, “seriously, is everything all right? Why are you calling?”

            “Why aren’t you texting?”

            “I’m at work!”

            “You were on your lunch break when I texted you asking when you’re going to be home,” he told her, his words rapid, “you’ve been on duty exactly 15 minutes, and you should’ve replied to your texts 16.8 minutes ago as you walked from the cafeteria to the elevator down to the morgue. Why didn’t you answer?”

            “Did you find a hidden batch of morphine or something?” she laughed her surprise at his vehemence, “I’m sorry I didn’t respond, I didn’t know what to say.”

            “What’s so hard about telling me when you’re going to be home?”

            _Our home is not a home…_ “You say home like—” she stopped herself, ”why is it so important?”

            “Leave, now,” he told her, “tell Mike you’re not feeling well, that you’re worried about me and can’t focus, and _come home_ ,” he took a breath, “and I say _home_ like it belongs to us. That this home is as yours as it is mine. That wherever you are, that is my home, so yes Molly, I say home like it belongs to both of us.”

            “Stop saying home,” she managed, “I’ll be there as soon as I can, I promise. How are you feeling?”

            “Come _home_ ,” he insisted, “and I’m fine. Pulse is normal, just checked my blood pressure like you told me to, it’s low but holding.”

            Within an hour, she’d gotten permission from Mike to head home. He’d looked at her with such sympathy, even hugged her before she’d practically run out of the hospital, too impatient for the Tube, she’d gotten a cab back to her place. She had thought about getting take out, but Sherlock’s paranoia was rubbing off on her, and she thought it would look suspicious if she got food for two. Deciding she would cook, she went straight home. “It’s me!” she called after opening the doors, not wanting him to worry.

            “Finally! What took you so long!” he yelled from the bedroom upstairs.

            “It didn’t take me long at all!” she called back, taking off her coat to hang on its hook. She couldn’t help touching the Belstaff that hung there, couldn’t help running her hand over it. This was one of the spares he kept in her flat, the one she’d wrapped around him when they’d snuck him out of the hospital. “Woe!” she yelled when she saw him at the head of the stairs, trying to come down to her. He was wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up in places, his eyes bleary, more pale than normal. “What are you doing?” she asked, taking the steps two at a time to stop him, wedging her shoulder under his arm to support him, “the third part of our deal was you wouldn’t get out of bed unless absolutely necessary.”

            He was panting from the pain that had ripped into his chest, she could practically feel him vibrating from it, his skin warming to her touch, “no take out,” said through gritted teeth.

            “What?”

            “You didn’t bring take out, and there’s no food in your fridge, so you’re going to have to cook dinner,” he breathed, “I like watching you cook, and I don’t want to be upstairs by myself while you’re here.”

            She closed her eyes against the flood of emotions, pressing her lips to his shoulder, “alright, but you need to hold the bannister. You’re too heavy for me so if you fall, I can’t catch you.”

            “I won’t fall,” he assured her, and somehow, they made it to the kitchen without anyone getting hurt, with her arm wrapped firmly around his waist, supporting his weight as much as she could. They were both panting by the time she settled him on the stool at the kitchen counter, where he could watch her cook for them both. He had his eyes closed, his lips drawn tightly over his teeth in an unmistakable grimace of pain. She walked to the living room, grabbing one of the throws and wrapping it around his shoulders, unable to stop herself from pressing a kiss against his ear. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, holding him for a few silent moments, hearing him breathing, feeling him… _feeling him._

            He was lost in thought while she cooked, barely responding when she asked if it was alright that she have music on. He watched her carefully as she moved throughout her kitchen, grabbing various ingredients to make them a simple dinner of rice and roasted vegetables, wanting to feed him something that would give his body strength to keep fighting. She wondered what he was thinking about, knew from the slight frown that he was deep in his mind palace.

            “You need to eat,” she told him, filling his plate with food once it was cooked, and he’d looked at her, one glance telling him that she would wrestle him to the ground and force feed him if she had to.

            She was clearing the dishes away when his phone rang. She held her breath when he told her it was Wiggins, when he told her that Mary was on her way to Lannister Gardens. He called John Watson next, giving him the address to meet him.

            “Please, _please_ be careful,” she told him when he stood up to leave, helping him put his coat on, buttoning it for him and pressing a kiss the center of his throat, grateful for the open collar.

            “Don’t worry,” he told her, leaning down to kiss her briefly, just a touch of his lips to hers, a connection, a communion between two people.

           

* * *

 

            She was waiting for him at the hospital when the ambulance rushed him in, tears flooding her eyes when she heard that they’d needed to restart his heart in the ambulance. But he was going to be fine, the doctors assured her. She quickly swiped the tears away when she saw John and Mary rush towards her, “I was downstairs,” she explained weakly, “where was he?” she asked John and Mary, her core trembling, prayers leaving her soul, begging whatever God was listening that Sherlock be returned to her.

            “Baker street,” John told her.

            She sat patiently with Sherlock, waiting for him to open his eyes after John and Mary left for the night. She pressed her lips to his hands, smiling at him when those gorgeous, nebulous eyes opened. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he murmured gruffly.

            “I agree,” she laughed, moving to sit next to him on the edge of the hospital bed, stroking his disheveled hair from his face, “you had me going there for a minute.”

            “I told you I’d be fine,” he murmured, closing his eyes at her touch. When he opened them, his eyes searched hers, and whatever he found there made him smile at her, “there’s that look, making me feel like I’m worth something.”

            She didn’t answer, just leaned down and kissed him properly. Her world was on fire, she had no idea what was up and what was down, had no idea what she was doing or how she was going to forgive him for the lies he’d buried her heart in but right now…none of it mattered, none of it held space between them. It remained outside as she kissed her love slowly, tasting him, knowing the ugliness outside would be there when she was shaken out of her fog.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heading out to Los Angeles for Letters Live y'all! Send positive vibes into the universe that a certain someone shows up. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!! We've got some fluff ahead until the shit hit the fan! Thanks for coming along for the ride!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing! I'm so excited that you're all enjoying these hidden moments-- trust me when I say I'm having a BLAST writing it. Your comments give me life!

            He could’ve used the key she’d given him, or the key she’d hidden specifically for him to use when he forgot to bring his key with him, but he preferred using the spare bit of wire he kept in his pocket to break into her flat. Somehow that was more fun.

She was sitting with her back to the door, her flat looking as if Christmas had thrown up all over it, annoyingly cheerful Christmas music wafting through her flat as she sat amidst mountains of wrapping paper, presents, and bits of ribbon.

            “Kettles on,” she called over her shoulder without turning around.

            He smiled his pleasure at how she’d known it was him without turning around, “how did you know I’m not a thief? And why didn’t you throw the deadbolt? I installed it for more than decorative purposes.”

            She looked at him over her shoulder with a smile, “I knew you were coming,” she answered as if that explained everything, “I can deduce things too you know, I’ve watched you do it long enough.”

            He knelt on the ground behind her with a grunt, not quite recovered enough to move freely, “enlighten me,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her from behind him.

            She leaned back against him, “you told me you’re spending Christmas with your parents, the Watsons, and Mycroft, and you made it sound like you’d rather I scrape your eyes out with a melon baller. Whenever you’re about to leave London _not_ for work, you break into my flat and sulk until you have to go.”

            “Very good deduction,” he murmured against her ear, wincing as skin and the stitches pulled.

            “You sound surprised,” she laughed.

            Sherlock pressed his nose to her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo, the body wash she used, the fragrance of her skin alluring beneath the perfume she wore. Dolce & Gabbana’s _Desire_ , he knew. It had surprised him when he’d seen the bottle of perfume in her bedroom, having always assumed she was too practical to be bothered with expensive perfumes and toiletries, but she surprised him. She always surprised him.

            After all these years, after all that they had gone through together, you would think he had learned to never underestimate Molly Hooper. But he always did, and he always ended up paying for it. She was stronger, smarter, sharper, sweeter, funnier, and more delicious than he ever gave her credit for. And it had only just occurred to him that she had learned to use that misperception against people.

            She had, in recent memory, used it against the Watsons, assuring them that she had no idea what had happened and why Sherlock had been shot, or by whom. When the four of them were in the same room, she moved around Sherlock without any warmth or regard, keeping the distance between them that would have been there after he had started using drugs. But when it was just two of them...she smiled at him, gave him her affectionate grins and winks, let him touch the small of her back, press kisses to the back of her neck when she was working, or just touching her arm just to touch her.

            But she never touched him, never initiated any contact. In fact, after the kiss they’d shared in the hospital, there hadn’t been anything else. No stolen moments or embraces, no midnight visits that had been spent in the throws of passion. He had spent plenty of nights with her in her flat, but they’d simply slept side by side, and he hadn’t thought of pressing her for more.

            He felt like an amputee sometimes, unable to understand human emotion or thinking, unable to see that connection between a person’s thoughts and the actions that resulted from the emotions that were always devoid of thought. It was like looking through a keyhole, trying to widen it with improper instruments, and he was always left in the cold of his ignorance. Usually it was a good thing not to get tangled up in those complicated, messy, all-too-human emotions because they drowned out thoughts, _productive_ thoughts.

            But the utility of being emotionless lost its allure around his Molly. For example, he didn’t understand why he always thought of her as _his_ Molly. Didn’t understand why the physical need to take her hadn’t simply overwhelmed his biology by now, why he was reluctant to grab her in the morgue and s her like his body had wanted him to since he’d left the hospital. Why he hadn’t just kissed her and kissed her until both of their bodies were ready for coitus, and proceed to satisfy their physical need for each other, from the biological reactions and rush of hormones? What made him stop, what was the reason behind his conviction that if he took her in that way, without settling her emotions, without voicing his own thoughts to her, he would hurt her.

            What had driven him here tonight if not for that physical need to simply slake his lust? He was a physically fit man, he could’ve simply found another female and engaged in sexual activity with her. Or he could’ve simply masturbated in the shower as all men did to get rid of those incessant hormones that made public appearances hard…pun intended. Why was here? Why was here with this specific woman, ready to beg her to take him back, to do with him as she would. What made Molly Hooper so attractive to him, what captivated him about this woman?

            She wasn’t beautiful, she was pretty but not remarkably so. She didn’t turn heads, and her taste in clothing made it difficult for anyone to desire her. Her eyes and hair were an unremarkable shade of brown, her hair always in a pony tail, and when she attempted to wear make up she usually botched it by putting too much on, looking more like a clown than a woman. So why was he here? On his knees? What made him feel like he was starving for this woman?

            How did her bland features always transform and transcend his expectations, his perception of her beauty? Because when he looked at her with that pounding heart that caused his heart rate to increase and dilated pupils, he couldn’t imagine a more beautiful woman in the whole of existence. Suddenly he found every hue of brown and flecks of gold and green in those brown eyes, found strands of red and blonde in the brown of her hair, her music when she spoke. The natural color of her lips lived in his dream, the natural beauty of her skin, the perfection of her face when it was scrubbed free of make-up after she took a bath….so beautiful. Stunning. Shattering.

            _His Molly._

            “Hello? Earth to Sherlock,” she had turned around and was facing him now, frowning slightly in concern, “are you in pain? What is it?”

            “I’m fine,” he snapped out of his thoughts, “sorry, just—just thinking.”

            “About what a wonderful time you’re going to have this Christmas?” she laughed, “because you look like you’re in pain.”

            “Do I?” he chuckled, “no. I’m avoiding all thoughts of Christmas at my parents’ cottage, not if I can avoid it, at any rate.”

            She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, watching him patiently, waiting for him to formulate his thoughts. He wondered if he should tell her about his plans with Magnussun, about the deal he’d made with the devil. She had known he was going to meet Magnussun for lunch at Angelo’s, had gotten him a bag of saline mislabeled as morphine to trick Magnussun into thinking he was addicted to drugs and addled out of his mind. But he hadn’t revealed his Christmas plans to her…

            “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she murmured finally, “and I feel like after what happened last time, that might not be the greatest idea, keeping things from me, I mean. I feel like, after last time, you’ve learned to trust me the way I trust you.”

            “It’s not—it was never about trusting _you_ , Molly,” he said, frustrated, amputated, “I trust you more than I trust myself, you _know_ that. I just don’t trust people—last time, I _had_ to—do what I did because I didn’t think people outside myself could’ve kept you safe, if they knew—if they _knew_. And right now, I don’t want to—I don’t think I should—I don’t want to tell you not because I don’t trust you, but because you’re going to either talk me out of it, or you’re going to worry. And I don’t want you to do either.”

            “The fact that you’re worried I’m going to talk you out of something that’s going to make me worried is already scaring me to death,” she frowned at him, “God Sherlock, what have you done?”

            He clenched his jaw, “I’m trying to help Mary, the only way I know how.”

            “By going to the lion’s den,” she frowned harder.

            “Shark’s lair,” he corrected her, “he doesn’t have the nobility attributed to lions as a species.”

            She didn’t say anything for several heartbeats and he found he was waiting breathlessly for her to speak, to discourage him, to tell him it was madness. Her thoughts were closed off to him, and he felt as vulnerable, as ignorant of the thoughts that floated through her mind as he had been with Irene Adler when she’d been naked. But Molly was fully clothed, wearing ridiculous Christmas pajamas, her feet bare, her hair up predictably in a ponytail but he couldn’t read anything from her face, couldn’t see her thoughts the way he could with everyone else. She impressed and terrified him simultaneously.

            “You think you can make a deal with him?” she murmured.

            “I think I can,” he told her, “pressure point, remember?”

            “He has a pressure point?” she frowned.

            “Sort of,” he murmured.

            “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” she said after a few moments of detestable, heavy silence that sank into his soul, “just promise…promise to be safe. Promise to come back, at least?”

            He took her hands in his, pressing them to his lips and wondered at himself, at the thoughtless act of kissing her hands. He pondered the meaning of the action for a few moments, realizing there was no sexual thought behind kissing her hands, recalled the history of the gesture and couldn’t understand his urge to kiss them. She wasn’t royalty, she wasn’t an aristocrat above his station.

            But logic had no space in his mind when Molly was roaming his mind palace, an infection he welcomed, the queen that owned the palace, the mistress of the manse, the empress he worshipped.

            He smiled against her hands, maybe that’s why he loved kissing her hands so much, a silent acknowledgement of her authority in his mind palace. “I promised you I would never lie to you,” he said at last, “and I’m unwilling to give you an empty, hollow promise. If all goes well, John, Mary and their unborn child will live the rest of their lives protected and safe from Mary’s past ever hurting them again. If something goes wrong, I will be arrested for treason.”

            “Oh,” she breathed, blinking at him, “those are two extremely different outcomes.”

            “I never liked straddling the fence,” he said, making her laugh.

            Molly shook her head slightly, standing on her knees and moving closer to him, cupping his face in her palms, “I don’t want you to do this,” she murmured, “I don’t want you getting hurt, not again Sherlock,” she pressed a kiss between his brows and he wrapped both of his arms around her waist, “but I know you have to do this.”

            “Molly,” he breathed her name, his eyes opening and closing like a fish on land, the words stuck in his throat, lodged there and making him feel frustrated, angry. “Molly,” he said again but she seemed to understand as she pressed herself against him.

            “Look,” she sighed, “what happened with…what Janine, with you and me…That hurt. That hurt a lot. I know you don’t—I know you don’t love me Sherlock, and we’re not…I don’t know, boyfriend and girlfriend, or whatever. We have no…no responsibility to each other—” he interrupted her, but she talked over him, “but you at least owed me honesty, the truth. At least. I need you to know it wasn’t—it wasn’t—it wasn’t petty jealousy. I have no…. _claim_ on you to feel jealous.”

            “You have every claim Molly,” he breathed, “I don’t deserve your trust and don’t know how to keep it. I don’t know a damned thing right now, I only know that it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. All that I care about right now is you… _you_ , Molly Hooper. Something worth fighting for.”

            She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him with hunger, with such passion that he felt like every fiber of his being, every nerve ending was on fire. But she was his sweet Molly, _his_ Molly, and she led him upstairs to carefully strip him, mindful as ever of his healing wound, careful that he didn’t lay back too fast and hurt himself. Her smile was radiant, and he _knew_ she was the most beautiful woman in the universe as he latched on to her mouth, kissing her with all that he was and knowing he was inadequate, and always would fall short of Molly Hooper.

            “Molly,” he groaned, “either let me strip you and get on top or get naked and give me your breast, my patience is wearing thin.”

            Laughing, she had kissed him slowly, her hand between them, stroking his growing erection with her familiar fingers, making him groan and arch into the warmth of her palm. A thousand thoughts, a thousand sensations flooding his system and none of them were ones he could name or understand. “Patience is a virtue darling,” she reminded him with a smile brimming with erotic promises.

            “Not when you won’t let me move,” he growled.

            “You’ll hurt yourself,” she said as she loomed over him, her thumb stroking the very tip of his prick, “need I remind you that you were shot in the chest not two months ago?”

            “Molly,” he breathed against her mouth, “I don’t give a damn about any wound. All I care about is the blood that’s suddenly vacated my head and is currently traveling at lightening speed to my prick, and the only relief for it right now is you. But you won’t let me _move_.”

            She sat back on his thighs with a soft chuckle, “when you put it like that,” she lifted her shirt over her head, tossing it somewhere behind her, making him groan when he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath. He stroked his hands up, cupping her in his palms, stroking her nipples and urged her forward to his mouth, suckling her and reveling in the taste of her skin.

            She rode him slowly, arching with him buried inside her, her muscles clenching tightly against him and squeezing him until he couldn’t breath from wanting her. She held herself over him with her hands planted on either side of his head, her head falling forward as she rode him slowly, bringing them both closer and closer to an orgasm that ripped through him, that left him deaf and blind and oblivious to everything but the woman on top of him, the woman pressing kisses to her throat, the woman that absorbed his orgasm.

            Molly lay with her head tucked against his chest, her hand spread over his heart, boneless and spent, “you better come back,” she told him sleepily.

            He leaned over to click off the lights in her bedroom, trapping them in darkness, and wished he could promise her that.           


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and please enjoy the following and let me know what you think! xx

            When the black sedan with tinted windows pulled up, blocking her way, Molly blinked in confusion until the window rolled down, and Mycroft Holmes poked his head out. His eyes were grim, and Molly’s heart plunged into her shoes, the cold she felt had nothing to do with the deadly snowstorm Christmas had brought them a few days ago.

            _Oh God._

            “What’s happened?” she demanded.

            “Miss Hooper,” his voice was even more grim than his eyes, “you’d better get into the car. I have already taken the initiative to call your employer and inform them that you have other, more urgent business to attend to.”

            She didn’t have to be told twice, didn’t wait for the driver to get out and open the car door for her the way he normally did. She practically dived into the back seat next to Mycroft, slamming the door behind her, “what’s happened?” she asked again, “where is he? Is he alright?”

            Mycroft clenched his jaw the same way Sherlock did when there was unpleasant news to be discussed. He tapped the back of the driver’s seat and they were speeding along through London before she knew it, breaking any and all traffic laws without a second thought. “You are being given this information, Miss Hooper, because I have known you long enough to trust you with official State secrets. You have proven a loyal friend to my brother over the years, and I have come to rely on your discretion. Even with your slight _in_ discretion with James Moriarty, you managed to keep the affair from getting messy.”

            “Mycroft,” she swallowed, “whatever it is, just tell me.” _I’m dying_. _Let him be ok_. _Let him be alive._

            Taking another deep breath, he explained to her what Sherlock had done- how he had drugged Mary, Mycroft, and their parents, Sherlock’s arrangement with Magnussun, the meeting at Appledore, Sherlock’s desperation to protect Mary and John, and shooting Magnussun in the head...

            _Oh God._

            “He is, of course, being charged with murder and high treason, attempting to sell State secrets,” Mycroft finished, “however, I have come to realize that trying to contain Sherlock Holmes in a prison is impossible. We would have riots every day. He is simply…uncontainable in a regular prison. I will be asking the powers that be to sentence him to exile. There is a--” Mycroft cleared his throat, “mission that MI-6 has been wanting to engage Sherlock for. If the authorities agree, that will be his sentence.”

            Something was wrong, something was rotten with the mission, but she didn’t know how to ask Mycroft. He looked as anguished about this as she felt, as confused, and just as hurt.

            He’d _murdered_ Magnussun. He’d shot him in the head, in cold blood.

            _My soul_.

            Molly wasn’t blind, she knew Sherlock Holmes was far from perfect. In fact, he was so imperfect, she was sure he would never achieve even a perfect breath. He was cold, emotionless, calculating when he needed to be, knew people’s pressure points just as Magnussun did and used them to his advantage when he needed to. He was rude, impatient, nasty, and impossible. A sociopath.

            But he wasn’t a murderer…even in his line of work, even with all the impossible situations he got into as a part of his job, she wasn’t aware of him killing anyone. And if he had, it had been in self-defense, when his life or the lives of those around him had been in danger.

            “You are not here, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft told her as he led her through the halls of a building with a bland outward appearance but inside, it was a state-of-the-art prison with cells that were encompassed by steel bars. She had no idea where they were and didn’t care, her heart in her throat as she imagined her love trapped in one of those horrendous, bare cells. “You do not know of this place’s existence, you haven’t even seen me today, and you most certainly haven’t spoken to Sherlock Holmes.”

            He stopped, gesturing with his hand for her to continue to the cell at the end of the hallway. She walked slowly, and nearly screamed when she saw him wearing a blue prison uniform, sitting on a cot with his head in his hand, hair balled in his fists. He looked up when there was a buzz and the cell door sprang open, blinking furiously as he watched her walk in as if he couldn’t believe she was there.

            She fell to her knees in front of him as the door latched itself shut behind her, “Oh Sherlock,” she murmured, cupping his face in her hands, feeling his stubble scrape against her palm, “oh darling, what have you done?”

            He looked up at her with haunted eyes, his face frightening and void of emotions. He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her, as if there was a mental block that kept him from knowing who she was. She saw the demons dancing beyond his eyes though, had tangoed with them enough to recognize their footsteps, saw them floating through his mind, saw the pain that he tried so hard to suppress.

She thought about why he was trying to hide how much pain it caused him to kill Magnussun. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all, what was life to him? What was death? Magnussun’s death was a logical choice, the only choice. The mind of Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be bothered with a guilty conscience, but the heart of Sherlock Holmes...

            “Darling,” tears fell before she could stop them, and she pressed her lips to his cheek, moving them across his cheek and jaw, “my darling man,” she murmured, hugging him tightly against her. It was like hugging a block of ice, but she knew he would thaw, knew that whatever comfort he could take her from her would help the panic in him to recede. Pressing her lips to his ear, she breathed with him and waited patiently, let his mind catch up with the rest of him, his heart rate picking up, she could feel it pumping furiously against her chest.

            “Molly,” he growled deep in his throat, “I’m a murderer.”

            She closed her eyes, his voice flat as she ran her fingers through his hair, “that man wasn’t a man, he was a monster Sherlock. He hurt so many people, did such terrible things,” she breathed against him, holding him tighter and wanted to find all the right words to say, all the things that he needed to hear from her.

            “He didn’t deserve to be murdered,” a shudder went through him and she knew whatever inner workings had made him so rigid were loosening, “I murdered him, in cold blood, Molly—” his voice trembled, “ _in cold blood_.”

            She pulled away from him slightly, cupping his face in her palms to force him to look at her and her heart broke at the expression on his face, his eyes flooded with tears, luminous as his lips trembled. “Let go,” she told him, pressing her mouth to his, “you’re safe with me, let go and grieve.”

            He shook his head stubbornly, and she thought his jaw would break he was clenching it so hard, “I’m fine,” he told her resolutely, “I’ll be fine, I have to be.”

            “Stubborn fool,” she murmured, “you don’t have to be anything. _Let go_ , you trust me, don’t you?”

            His mouth opened, formulating words that didn’t quite come out, closing it again in frustration when he realized he couldn’t speak, he literally couldn’t speak. “Beyond myself,” he finally managed, “but how can you—why are you still here? You should—you should turn away from me, Molly. I’m…I’m a _killer_.”

            “You’re Sherlock, you’re _my_ Sherlock, you will always be _my_ Sherlock,” she pressed her forehead against his, “you have the biggest heart I know, have the most generous soul. Your love for your friends knows no bounds and I have so much respect for you, for that. You said you’d lay down your life for your friends and you have, over and over again, darling,” she pressed a kiss to his forehead, “you are a good man, who did a bad thing to keep worse things from happening to good people, to people you care about, people who mean a lot to you.”

            “Molly,” he moaned her name as if in pain, “Molly I’m not those things.”

            “In my eyes you are,” she kissed his lips, “remember when you asked me if I would help you, whether or not you are everything you think you are, whether or not you were the things I thought you to be? Remember what I replied?

            He laughed slightly, “you didn’t reply Molly, you just asked what I needed.”

            She pressed her smile to his cheekbone, “that’s still my answer,” she murmured, “to me, you will always be a good man because whatever you do Sherlock, you do it out of the goodness of your heart. You didn’t…you didn’t…you didn’t do what you did for fun, for sport. You did it because you knew the world would be a better place without him, you know that he had to be stopped, knew that John and Mary wouldn’t live a single day in peace if he was left to his own devices. You did it to protect those you love darling, and I can’t find fault in that. I’ve told you before, you’re worth whatever I say you are, and you’re worth everything right now.”

            He finally broke, the tears sliding down his eyes as his shoulders shook from the sobs, hugging Molly so tightly against him that she could barely breath as she held him, murmuring in his ear, rubbing his back with her palms. His sobs broke her heart, shattering her into pieces, reminding her of his humanity in the most destructive way she could imagine. “I’m here,” she whispered against his ear, letting him grieve, mourn for all that had happened, for all that he’d been forced to do to protect his loved ones.

            It had taken her a while, but she had come to realize that he wasn’t an emotionless robot at all. In fact, Sherlock felt human emotions much more acutely than the people around him, experienced them so harshly and honestly that he had to force himself to ignore those feelings, those emotions. He was more fragile than she had ever imagined, and she wondered if her understanding of that fact, of Sherlock’s secret, had forged their relationship to be what it was, that enabled her to forgive him the way she always did, to love him as impossibly as she did.

            It didn’t matter now, did it? He was being sent away, being exiled for the way he felt, for the way he dealt with his emotions, for doing something that was purely logical even though it had shattered his very soul to do it. She wanted to tell him she loved him, wanted him to know that he was her everything, no matter where he went or what he did, that she would always love him and would die loving him. But she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t send him away with that distraction in his mind. He wouldn’t be able to process it, and she wouldn’t be with him to help him go through it. She would tell him when he came back to her, when he returned from his mission for MI-6.

            A dark part of her wondered if he would actually come back…

            Keeping her secret in her heart, and guarding them both, Molly pulled away to kiss him slowly, tasting him on her tongue, memorizing the way he clung to her with desperation, the way his tears tasted as she comforted him, as she twirled his curls around her finger and thought she would never forget how soft it felt against her skin. With every breath, with every sigh, with every moan she told him she loved him, with every press of her body to his she breathed for him, lived for him…

            She was escorted to the waiting car, not bothering to hide her tears from Mycroft who could probably tell that she and Sherlock shared more than just friendship. She sat in the back of the car and sobbed, her entire body quaking with the force of her tears, wishing she could wipe away the memory of him watching her leave his cell with his heart in his eyes, with so much pain leaking from their depths and gripping her.

            The driver looked like he was about to start crying with her, looking so worried and concerned that he even offered to walk her up to her flat. She shook her head, her feet somehow carrying her up, her trembling fingers managing to unlock the front door and she stumbled inside, collapsing against the door. She looked up at the hanger and saw the extra Belstaff there, pulling down to her lap, burying her face into the familiar cloth, the familiar scent of her lover, of her love, and wept so wretchedly her throat burned.


	11. Chapter 11

            Sherlock’s hands were shaking, and he wasn’t sure whether it was from the drugs he’d been using to blur his reality or from excitement at the thought of seeing Molly. It had only been two days since she’d come to visit him, two days since he’d been exiled, but it had felt like a lifetime…multiple lifetimes, with nothing but Molly holding him together.

He left John behind as he ran down the stairs to the morgue, unable to wait for his slower friend, unable to contain himself as he rushed down to her in the morgue.

            Sherlock threw the doors open and there she was, wearing something ridiculous but she was running towards him, “I heard you running from down the hall,” she yelled, launching herself at him in the empty hallway, throwing her arms around his neck and he held her, breathing her in as he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground, “oh God! _Sherlock_!”

            He walked with her still clinging to him, pushing the swinging doors to the morgue open with his back, needing to give them some privacy as she peppered his face with kisses, making him feel alive, making him feel like he had actually come _home_.

            “I missed you,” she told him, wrapping her legs around his waist, locking her ankles as he set her on the desk, holding her tightly.

            “I’ve only been gone two days!” he admonished her, pulling away slightly to wipe her tears away, “and why are you crying?”

            “Two extremely long days, and I’m crying because you’re back,” she told him, clutching the lapels of his coat.

            “If my coming back is making you cry, maybe I should go away,” he told her, earning a light smack on his arm from his ferocious little tigress.

            “That’s not funny!” she said through tears, her eyes dropping to his lips, “it felt like a lifetime without you.”

            “Ages,” he murmured, wanting to kiss her more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life. But he found himself pulling away from her kiss, “you uh—you should know I- I uhm—I’ve been…using.”

            He didn’t need to say anything beyond that, couldn’t explain himself beyond that, somehow saying the words using cocaine, using morphine in her presence made him feel dirtier than he usually did. He watched disappointment and shock flash through her beautiful brown eyes, watched the way she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his even as she rolled up his coat and shirt sleeve high enough to see the track marks in his skin. She moaned his name but made no move to move away from him, to run away from the filth that he carried in his veins, the filth that he brought to her.

            “I couldn’t—I couldn’t bare being sent away from London, from my friends, from…from you,” he breathed against her ear, “ _you_ Molly. I couldn’t stand the idea of being away from you. I couldn’t live through that.”

            “I know,” she murmured and kissed him, holding him tightly, “I understand, this time I understand,” she said and kissed him again, “have the withdrawals started?”

            “Not yet,” he told her, “I figured I have a few more hours to go,” he said rather casually.

            “Will you be wanting to—”

            He didn’t let her finish, “yes, if you don’t mind,” he smiled for her, grateful that after everything they’d been through together, after all that they had suffered, after the countless times she had nursed him from failing at sobriety, she still welcomed him into her home, still offered to help him live through the withdrawals. “Molly Hooper,” he breathed her name, cupping her face in his palms, her breath warm against his lips, smelling of the gum she must have been chewing to keep her concentration, “may I kiss you?”  
            “Isn’t—isn’t John with you?” she breathed.

            “I don’t care,” he told her, dipping his head down slowly, pressing his mouth to hers, tasting her, feeling that familiar sense of life spreading through him again, thawing the ice that had encased his heart. This was coming home, this was what freedom felt like, this was what he been mourning when he was sent away.

            _Home_.

            She clung to him, feeling her smile against his lips before she parted them for him, her fingers automatically finding the strands of hair that she always liked playing with when he kissed her. His Molly made the most incredible sounds as she drew him closer to her, growling in frustration when she pulled away from him, “I can hear John,” she murmured, “take my key and go to my flat tonight, I’ll let Mike know I’m taking the next few days off.”

            By the time John walked in, Molly had hopped off her desk and had righted her clothes, Sherlock leaning casually against the wall, playing with his phone, barely glancing up. She’d quickly used her hands to comb his hair back to its usual state, wiping off the bit of lip gloss that marked his mouth. “So, is he back? Moriarty?” she asked, sitting on the stool and watching the two men.

            John raised a brow at Sherlock, waiting for him to answer but Sherlock kept on typing furiously on his phone. With an exasperated sigh, John rubbed his eyes before crossing his arms in front of him, “Sherlock says no, that this is some post-humous game. And by the way, he figured all of this out by taking drugs and hallucinating a case about someone called Amelia Ricolleti.”

            She made a mental note to ask Mycroft for the list, so she could better help Sherlock over the withdrawals that would start burning through his system soon. “Amelia Ricolleti?” she glanced at Sherlock, felt John’s surprise at her lack of attention at the news that he’d been using, “not that old case I told you about?”  
            Sherlock finally looked up at her, surprise in his light colored eyes, his fingers finally pausing their furious typing, “ _you_ told me about that case?”

            “Yeah,” she frowned at him like he had lost his mind, “I told you about it, what? Ten years ago? I came across it when I was doing research for my thesis. Don’t you remember?”

            She watched the way he rubbed his mouth to hide his smile from Watson, probably remembering the circumstances under which she’d told him about the case. She had just finished writing the thesis that had caused her to lose twenty pounds and countless hours of sleep and so much stress that her hair had started falling out. She had come across the case of the mysterious Mrs. Ricolleti while doing research and thought he would find the mystery intriguing. He was probably remembering how he’d been sitting on the floor of her first apartment while she lounged on the couch in her pajamas, and they’d been heroically getting sloshed together, passing a bottle of whiskey between, munching on a mixture of nuts and cheese. They’d eventually passed out, falling asleep in each other’s arms on the floor. She’d woken up to realize she’d been using his chest as a pillow, his fingers tangled in her hair with one of her throw pillows under his head. That had been the first of countless nights they spent together, simply sleeping in proximity of each other, finding that they slept better with the other’s breath in their ear and heartbeat beneath their palm.

            “I deleted the source but kept the information,” he told her, and she rolled her eyes at him when she was sure John wasn’t looking.

            “You’re not even the least bit disturbed that he’s using again?” John finally exploded.     

            Molly blinked at him, shocked and slightly disturbed by his outburst. “Erm,” she cleared her throat, “he’s an addict, John. He’s also human, he’ll relapse every now and then, but he always managed to get his act together.”

            “Why are you defending him?” John snapped.

            She had to remind herself that John didn’t know that she knew the truth, thought that she didn’t realize he’d been exiled, sent away by his own brother to his death instead of going to prison for high treason and cold-blooded murder. “I’m not defending him,” she said quietly, “I’m just reminding you that addiction is a disease, and contrary to what everyone including Sherlock think, he’s human.”

 

Going home that night with five days off from work under her belt, her heart in her throat, she closed the door behind her, smiling at the familiar Belstaff hanging from its rightful peg. But any joy she felt, any excitement, any seconds she took to relish his being home disappeared when she heard him calling her from upstairs. “Molly!” he yelled, panic evident in his voice.

She took the steps two at a time, taking off her coat as she went, “coming darling! I’m coming! I’m here!” she yelled.

He was pale and draped around the toilet bowl in her _en suite_ , covered in sweat, his white shirt clinging to his wet skin as he heaved. His sleeves were rolled up and she saw they were red, the imprints of his nails from when he’d tried to itch that invisible scratch that would torment him. “I’m here,” she told him, throwing her coat to the ground, landing hard on her knees on the tiles of the bathroom floor but couldn’t care, stroking his curls away from his face. Her phone went off in her pocket and she saw that it was the list form Mycroft. She quickly read it, committing it to memory before turning her attention to him. She wondered if he’d been trying to kill himself before boarding the flight, but she pushed the thought out of her mind.

Every muscle in his body seemed to clench at once, everything in his body flexing simultaneously, his hand coming to rest against his stomach, his eyes squeezing shut as tears dribbled out from beneath his long lashes. The other fist he pounded into the tile, he was murmuring, his words and tone breaking her heart, his thoughts dark and all too familiar to her. He was babbling, and he wouldn’t stop for another hour or two, she knew that. The cocaine always caused depression, always created anguish beyond her understanding, and it lasted longer than necessary in her opinion.

She reached for a wash cloth, holding it under ice-cold tap water then bringing it to wet the back of his neck, “shhh,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his ear to get his attention, “don’t fight it Sherlock, let go,” she told him, taking the hand he pressed into his stomach and bringing it to her lap as he reared up, retching. “It’s alright,” she promised him, “it’s going to be alright. You and me? We’ve done this before, remember?”

During one of his more lucid moments throughout the next 24 hours, he’d been curled in her lap, completely naked because the feel of anything but Molly touching him was too much. She sat on the sofa with her legs stretched in front of her on the coffee table, half asleep, wishing they were at least in bed but he had started getting cabin fever upstairs, needing a change of scenery. She was stroking his hair, dozing off as he slept fitfully in her lap, jerking out of sleep every few moments, startled by some thought, by some idea, by something triggering in his body that shocked him into consciousness.

“Molly,” he’d said softly.

“Mmm?” she’d managed to hum, instantly alert to his voice, “what is it darling?”

“Do you still think—do you still believe I’m still—still worth something?” his voice was quiet, and she knew he was in that gray haze between consciousness and sleep, the drugs seeping out of his system, leaving reality a hazy concept. She always thought these were the most honest versions of Sherlock she would ever see, the questions and comments he made were lacked the filters and spin he always put on himself, the Sherlock that not even he knew existed.

“You’re still worth everything,” she told him, pressing her palm against the side of his face, his skin clammy against her palm, “you’ll always be worth everything to me Sherlock, nothing will change that, nothing can.”

“Promise?” he asked in that soft voice.

“I promise,” she murmured, rubbing his curls between her fingers.

He rubbed his cheek against her thigh, like a cat seeking comfort, sighing in contentment, “my Molly,” he murmured softly before falling asleep at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! For those of you curious-- I have an entire fic dedicated to Molly helping Sherlock through recovery-- it's called "It's Been A While" and there's a much shorter, random one called "What He Needs". 
> 
> Thanks for reading and please let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving into Season 4 now-- enjoy! :)

            The next few months passed them by in a blur and flurry of activity.

            Sherlock kept busy with cases during the day, often without even leaving the flat or looking up from his phone, tweeting and texting furiously, even using Facetime when he had enough patience. He and John left for cases, spending their days filled with mysteries that baffled the Yard or any other policing service around the world. When Molly questioned his method, he told her simply that he was bait, and whatever game Moriarty was planning would be known soon enough.

            He spent every night with Molly, sneaking off to her flat after Baker Street was emptied of friends, visitors, and clients for the day. He’d finally learned to use his key instead of breaking in whenever he felt like it and found that he actually preferred using the key more than the bit of wire. It somehow made him feel more attached to her and their secret home, made _their_ home more his than it had been before. She would usually be home by the time he went around to her flat, and he would be greeted by her radiant smile, with a hug, with a warm kiss, with the familiarity of a lover, with the intimacy of a life partner.

            When she wasn’t home, working a late shift at Bart’s, she would come home to find him lounging on her sofa, usually getting take-out for her. His greetings were more annoyed and impatient on those occasions, angry and petulant that he had been deprived of his Molly for the time-period she’d been at work. She’d usually laugh at him, calling him her over-grown child, throwing her coat and bag at him, usually resorting to hurling the throw pillows until he finally relented and laughed.

            He and Mycroft had also assigned her a security detail, worried that Moriarty would attempt to use Molly against Sherlock somehow. She’d told them it was unnecessary, that Jim hadn’t known anything about their friendship beyond the professional one they presented to the rest of the world. But the brothers had insisted, and she’d relented, knowing that they would sleep better at night knowing she was protected. Mycroft had even installed a security system in her home, just in case.

            Sherlock and Molly didn’t always make love, sometimes it was just enough to hold each other, talking about their day, sharing every moment with each other, sharing kisses, and enjoying the simple connection. Molly had lost count of all the times she’d fallen asleep on the couch, listening to his heart beating beneath her cheek, the sound bringing her more comfort than she could fathom. There was a maturity between them now, a settled intimacy that reminded Molly of married couples, and felt a flutter of warmth when she thought that she and Sherlock knew each other better than the Watsons knew each other.

            But despite the amount of time they spent together during the day, they remained nothing but colleagues, sometimes friends, to the rest of the world. No one suspected their affection for each other, no one suspected their nights, their secret, except maybe Mycroft but he never commented or asked, and they never told him or anyone else. Sherlock and Molly never talked about either, never really made a pact to keep their affair secret, keeping it _their_ affair, as Molly thought about it. Maybe people noticed the way they touched each other’s hands, maybe they noticed how he gripped her hips when they were in the lab together and he needed to walk behind her to get to the other side of her, but they assumed it was years worth of friendship.

            Molly’s friends, friends from work, from uni, always tried setting her up on blind dates, told her she needed to get back out there, needed to stop wallowing in her broken engagement and move on. But they didn’t know that she was with her soulmate, that the secret smile on her lips when she was drinking her morning cup of coffee in the lab, surrounded by interns, was because the love of her life had woken her up that morning with his mouth between her thighs, his voice a growl.

            They belonged to each other, knew that they did, and that was enough for them both.

            Molly sometimes wondered if he preferred the secrecy because it protected her from his enemies attention, maybe the catastrophe with Janine had taught him to protect her by keep her close instead of pushing her away. Or, she told herself, it could be that he enjoyed the simple secrecy of it like she did. Away from prying eyes, prying minds, away from scrutiny, away from opinions that would color their relationship whether they liked it or not.

            The other great pleasure in Molly’s life was the friendship she’d started forging with Mary Watson. She hadn’t gotten a chance to really get to know the other woman before the wedding, too much had been happening, too much had called them both away. But they had started bonding after Sherlock had returned to her, and she relished the girl’s nights with Mary, when they would simply stay in and watch old romantic movies together while John was away with Sherlock. They would drink virgin daiquiris that Mary mixed with expertise, and Molly would smile to herself, knowing Mary had no idea that they were both missing their men on those nights.

            What Molly really loved about Mary was her lack of prying, never pressing Molly about dating, never insisting on trying to get Molly to talk about things that she clearly didn’t want to discuss. Their friendship was easy, comfortable. She often got dragged to baby shopping sprees with Mary, even went to a few doctor’s visits with her, unable to keep her excitement at bay when she’d watched the baby appear on the monitor during a sonogram.

            One night, just as Molly was about to leave Bart’s, wondering where Sherlock was, he texted her, telling her that they were taking Mary to the hospital, that her water broke, and baby girl Watson was well on her way. She’d thrust her things into the locker room, shoving everything impatiently before bounding upstairs just in time to watch the emergency crew wheel in Mary, who was screaming at the top of her lungs, John and Sherlock talking simultaneously, both telling her to breath.

            Molly grabbed Sherlock’s coat, halting him as Mary was taken into one of the delivery rooms, the entire hospital seeming to echo with her screams. They stood outside the doors, waiting breathlessly, holding hands until they heard a final scream and the wail of the baby. Molly couldn’t help bursting into tears of relief, so happy that both of them were alright, barely registering the way he hauled her against him, pressing her face into his chest as he held her, sighing with relief against her hair. Neither of them realized that Mary, in all the confusion, in all the chaos, somehow saw their secret embrace, saw the way they took comfort from each other.

            A few days later, she rode back to her flat with Sherlock after helping settle little Rosie and Mary into their new home. Molly’s head was buzzing from the champagne they’d been drinking in celebration, and all she wanted to do was rest her head against his chest as they rode through London, but Mrs. Hudson was riding with them. She was chattering excitedly about being godparents, with Sherlock griping about the pointlessness of being a godparent, and she laughed, listening to their endless bickering.

            “Where are you going?” Mrs. Hudson asked, when they got to Baker Street but Sherlock didn’t get out with her.

            “I have a meeting at the Yard,” he lied smoothly, reaching for the door, and closing it, “bye-bye.”

            Molly narrowed her eyes at him, slipping her hand into his, “are you going to the Yard?”  
            “Nope,” he answered, “but we can’t have Mrs. Hudson knowing I’m going spend the rest of the night with you.”

            She smiled, wanting to rest her head against his shoulder but knew he wouldn’t allow it, worried about the driver recognizing him and seeing the familiarity of their touch. Taking a deep breath, she settled for the way his fingers fluttered over hers, hidden beneath the folds of the Belstaff, “She’s so perfect, isn’t she?” Molly murmured, surrounded by his familiar scent, the soft whistling of his breath in her ear even as he texted without pause.

            “Mrs. Hudson? I would say far from perfect, considering the fact that she was an exotic dancer while her husband ran one of the largest drug cartels out of Florida,” he muttered.

            “I meant Rosie you clot,” she laughed.  

            “Oh,” he said without intonation, “yes, she is rather perfect. Looks more like Mary, thank God.”

            She chuckled, suddenly thinking about what Sherlock’s babies would look like. She remembered the pictures of him as a child she’d seen at his parents’ home when she’d visited during his “death”. He’d been such a beautiful little boy with his dark, midnight colored hair and those startlingly pale eyes, fiercely intelligent and playful, mischievous and stubborn. He would make beautiful babies, she thought, the pit of her stomach clenching as if her womb was imagining his baby too. Imagined the joy of carrying his seed, his child, mixing half of him with half of her, breathing life into their love, their secret personified. They walked into her flat and she was still imagining his babies, thinking how lovely it would be to watch him with his little girl, wrapped tightly around her little finger.

            “What are you thinking,” he murmured as she took off her coat. She glanced up and knew he already knew, already guessed.

            She shook her head, “nothing,” she answered walking to the kitchen, “nothing worth bringing up.”

            He followed her, unbuttoning his jacket, leaning against the counter to watch her closely, “you should tell me.”

            Molly looked at him, “I know you well enough Sherlock,” she forced a laugh, “you’ll run for the hills if you knew.”

            Walking behind her, he wrapped his arm around her from behind, spanning his fingers over her stomach as he pressed her back against his chest, his mouth against her temple, “were you thinking about what it would be like to have a baby together? Perfect bits of you, imperfect bits of me, growing inside you, my seed making you swell up, grow,” he kissed her cheek, “I thought about it a lot when I was detangling Moriarty’s web. What you would look like pregnant, how delicious you would look, ripe as a strawberry. I doubt I would make any kind of father worth having but oh Molly, you’ll make such a wonderful mother someday, so beautiful as the seed flourishes in your womb.”

            Molly swallowed against the lump in her throat, imagining all those things, thinking about all those things…suddenly desperate for that vision to become a reality, wanting his baby so badly she was in physical pain. She closed her eyes against the tears that flooded her eyes, pressing her head back against his chest, gripping his fingers where they rested against her stomach, “I don’t know what kind of father I’ll be, Molly,” his voice was so soft she had to strain her ears to hear him, “I reckon a rubbish one, but you—you make me want to try,” his lips were soft against her throat, “you make me want things I never thought I was capable of wanting.”

            Turning in his arms, she let him kiss her slowly, let him take her upstairs, holding himself above her as they forsook the condom they always used. She held him in her body, felt him move inside her, felt the monumental moments as he grunted against her throat, understanding what they had just agreed to, her last conscious thought before she lost herself in the way he moved was that she would have to throw away her birth control pills in the morning.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See if you can spot the bit of Christopher Tiejens I couldn't resist ;) Enjoy!

The morning of the baptism, they made a show of Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock picking Molly up in a cab before heading to the church together. He blinked at her outfit, languidly running his eyes over her body with the aching familiarity of a long-time lover, raising a brow at the red turban woven through her hair. But he declined to comment, pursing his lips as he sat between her and Mrs. Hudson in the back, his fingers brushing against her bare leg at every given opportunity but his eyes never straying from his phone screen for long.

            When they arrived at the church, she had to consciously draw away from him, realizing that their bodies were so used to the other’s proximity that they naturally canted towards each other, heads nearly touching even though he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Their body’s betrayed them, wanting the world to know that they were more than anyone suspected, that they wanted to become so much more, striving to create a new life together, a new being that would be part her, part him. She stood by his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his jacket even as she listened to the words spoken so reverently over her goddaughter, nudging him, and rolling his eyes at his insolence, her cheeks bursting as she fought to suppress her laughter when his phone’s Siri function went off.

            It was a disaster trying to get him to stand still long enough for the photographer to take their picture with their goddaughter. “Honestly,” she hissed, glancing up at him, “Rosie’s better at picture than you!”

            He glanced at her, seeing that she was quite serious about the pictures and finally stashed his phone away, petulantly rolling his eyes, “fine, I’ll give my attention to these horrendous pictures as a bunch of so-called adults wearing their Sunday best stand around a squalling, crying, extremely tired infant who’s just been manhandled and nearly drowned by a stranger chanting strange incantations to an imaginary god, ignoring the fact that the infant neither cares nor understands the pictures she is being forced to partake in, and she just wants to go back to the comfort of her mother’s arms and her milk.”

            She didn’t say anything for a few moments, barely registering the fact that she had nearly slipped her arm through his as they sat in the pew, her cheek against his shoulder. Sitting up straighter, she looked into his beautiful eyes with a raised brow and soft voice, “you do remember that I’m Catholic, right?”

            “Roman Catholic,” he corrected her, like he always did.

            Molly grinned, touching the back of his hand with her fingertips, the light touch enough to remind him of her love when they weren’t in the privacy of their home, “our baby will be baptized too, with godparents, and even a party afterwards.”

            His eyes flared slightly as he looked at her, “our baby,” he repeated solemnly, the smile on his lips indescribable, “ _our_ baby.”

            Mary’s voice broke through their bubble, Molly looked up to see her friend’s shrewd eyes watching them, “I want a picture of Rosie with just Molly and Sherlock,” Mary looked at Mrs. Hudson, “you don’t mind do you, Mrs. Hudson?”

            “Of course not!” Mrs. Hudson grinned.

            Rosie was fussy, having been passed around parents and family members for pictures, getting tired of the changing, often unfamiliar faces. Sherlock was rolling his eyes as they walked to the front of the church, Mary handing the crying bundle to Sherlock. Molly grinned as Rosie instantly quieted in her godfather’s arms, something in Molly’s womb shivered to life as she watched Sherlock easily carrying the infant in the crook of his arm, talking to her as if she understood him, the smile on his face radiant.

She listened for a moment, laughing at his words, “oh I know little one, I know,” he sympathized, “these ridiculous grown-ups and their rituals, combined with their inarticulable need to memorialize everything,” he grinned at her, “when you’re older, I’ll teach you to cause enough mischief that situations like this will become either extinct or at least bearable.” She realized she was rubbing her stomach as she watched the two, heard Rosie’s gurgling and cooing at Sherlock’s attention, the little girl clearly pleased with her godfather.

            Molly stood next to them, Sherlock holding their goddaughter between them, Molly arms wrapped around his waist, her fingers over his under Rosie’s warm body. She smiled into the camera lens, surrounded by her love’s familiar cologne and her goddaughter’s sweet scent, wondering just how much Mary had seen, how much she had understood.

            The party at John and Mary’s after the baptism was a small affair for the closest friends and family, the day surprisingly sunny with nearly everyone deciding to take advantage of the weather by going in the Watson’s yard with their drinks. Molly remained inside, more comfortable standing behind the kitchen counter, lost in her thoughts as she sipped her glass of water, unaware of her own thoughts. Mary breezed into the kitchen unexpectedly, pulling Molly from her daydreams, “what are you doing standing here all by yourself?” Mary demanded.

            Molly chuckled, setting her glass down, “I guess I’m feeling a little introverted right now, I’m sorry.”

            Mary waved her hand, fussing around the kitchen, “I totally understand,” she assured her, “so how long have you and Sherlock been together?”

            Molly nearly spat her water out, but she wasn’t necessarily surprised. The surprise came more from the fact that it had taken Mary this long to put two and two together. She cleared her throat, grabbing a napkin to wipe at the water that had dribbled down her chin and onto her chest, “uh,” she cleared her throat, “I don’t know honestly,” she laughed slightly, “I want to say our entire lives but my math would seem a little off at that.”

            Chuckling, Mary stood across the counter from her, “ever since he got shot?”  
            Trying to hide her smile, wondering how the other woman would react if she knew that Molly knew all about her past life, that Mary had shot Sherlock… “Before that,” she answered, “uhm, around the time he was uh, pretending to be dead.”

            “Wow,” Mary breathed, “I’d suspected something was going on but—wait! Wow. Janine? Oh my _God_ , and Tom?”

            Molly squirmed, “that was a…rough patch,” she cleared her throat.

            “Why are you keeping it a secret? I don’t even think John knows.”

            “No one knows,” she confirmed, “Mycroft _may_ suspect because he—” she waved away the words before she gave so many secrets away, “but yeah, we—we don’t want people…knowing.”

            “Why though?” Mary persisted.

            Shrugging, Molly looked at the clear surface of her glass of water, thinking the blue tint of the glass and the yellowish counter created a color similar to Sherlock’s eyes. The thought that she might currently be carrying his child floated through her mind, warming her, and she prayed their baby would have his eyes and his cheekbones and his lips, and while she was it, she wished their baby would have his hair and intelligence too, his sharp wits and heart capable of so much love and bravery. “I don’t know,” she murmured in answer to Mary, “it’s just nice to be together without anyone else’s interference or input, whether good bad or indifferent. It’s—it’s better being each other’s secret,” she cleared her throat, “and I think—I think he worries about me—”

            “About you being used against him,” Mary finished, her voice soft, a slight frown forming between her eyes as if recalling her own struggles, the sacrifices she’d been ready to make for her loved ones.

            “Yes,” Molly said weakly.

            “You don’t mind?” Mary asked with a raised brow, “I mean, everyone is just assuming you’ve been pining for Tom and Sherlock, stuck in a rut.”

            Molly chuckled softly, feeling strange to hear the perceptions about her out loud. She knew what she came off as, a young woman in her prime on the fast track to becoming a spinster with a house full of cats, socially awkward and inept at dating or keeping a lover, with a hopeless, school girl crush on a man that barely ever acknowledged her presence. But she knew the truth, their truth, and it was her salve, the secret smile on her lips was for her and her lover to relish, “not really,” she answered Mary, “I like that he’s—he’s my secret.”

            That moment, the object of her thoughts walked in. The day had been warm enough that even he had taken off his navy-blue jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his pristine, light blue shirt. Molly’s appreciatively watched the way the blue material stretched to the brink across his shoulders and chest, that poor button straining against his broad chest, making her fingers itch to stroke the warm skin underneath, his forearms thick and busting with muscles he had recently gained. With a single glance at her and Mary, he knew the proverbial cat was out of the back, his shoulders dropping as he rolled his eyes, “you’re getting slow Mary, I thought you would have figured it out ages ago.”

            Mary laughed a fake, teasing laugh, “considering the two of you are never in the same room long enough for anyone to notice anything,” she raised an eyebrow, “I figured all this out without much proof. I can get some credit.”

            He walked around the counter, coming to stand next to Molly. He didn’t touch her, didn’t wrap his arm around her waist or even glance at her, he just stood next to her, letting their bodies betray them as they always did, angled towards each other. “Mary—”

            Mary’s expression softened as she held up her hand, “I know Sherlock, I know,” she glanced at Molly, “your secret is safe with me.”

            Sherlock took Molly home not long after that, feeding everyone some believable excuse about their early departure together. Molly reluctantly gave Rosie to her father, pressing a kiss to her goddaughter’s soft forehead, smiling at the little girl’s strong grip around her finger. “Now, now young Miss Watson,” Sherlock murmured, mimicking Molly as he kissed Rosie’s forehead, “you must let go of your godmother’s finger. She has to get back home to attend to some important work, you’ll understand better when you’re older.”

            “You are not taking my daughter to a crime scene, Sherlock,” John Watson joked but Mary’s smile was all-too-knowing, waving at them as he climbed into the cab after Molly.

            They sat together, their fingers intertwined, hidden from the cabbie’s view beneath the folds of Sherlock’s great coat. The drive to her flat was silent, no words necessary, and his phone stayed in his pocket the entire ride as he looked out at London with a slight frown, rubbing his chin with his long middle finger, deep in thought. He followed her into the flat, letting her close the door before he pressed her back against it, bending down to kiss her slowly, tasting her as he filled his hands with her softness, kneading her flesh with knowing, familiar fingers as he drew soft moans from her.

            “I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he told her, one hand reaching up to release her hair from the turban, “but I’ve been wanting to do _this_ even more,” he murmured, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her short dress and drawing it up, bunching it around her waist as he ran his hands over her thighs. There was something in his eyes, a luminous light that left his mouth working to find the words that were lost to him, leaving him frustrated until Molly brushed her lips to his, silencing his thoughts as she slipped her small hand beneath his shirt, spreading her fingers over his chest, over his beating heart.

            Eventually she pulled back with a sigh, in that profoundly beautiful silence between them, she intertwined their hands together. She led him upstairs where they filled the silence with sighs and impatient whispers, with moans that entreated the heavens and the earth for more… _God, please, more…_ for release, prayers of pleading to whatever power in the universe had brought them together to let them disappear in the other. She pressed her forehead against his chest, gasping when he came inside her, holding himself rigidly above her as his body shook and quaked with the force of his pleasure, her lips his saving grace as he floated down to her, her arms his retreat from the world.

 

            It was a gloomy Tuesday night but in Molly’s heart there was sunshine and rainbows, and she was tempted to start spouting poetry or even singing show tunes, if only to annoy her Sherlock. He was sitting on her countertop, his jacket long forgotten on her sofa, shirtsleeves rolled back, swinging his long legs like a schoolboy as he watched her cook dinner for them. His voice carried through her soul as he told her about the case he’d just solved, the poor young man that had died in his parents’ driveway, his remains hidden there for a week before being discovered.

            “That poor kid,” she murmured, pausing to look at him, “I can’t even imagine.”

            He waved his hand dismissively, “that’s not the most interesting part,” he said, dunking a ginger nut into his tea, making her smile even as he told her about the broken Thatcher bust.

            “So?” she raised a brow.

            “So,” he breathed, “there’s a thread loose in the world.”

            Molly laughed at him, “well, before you go merrily tugging on it and unraveling the great mystery of a broken Thatcher bust, stir this sauce will you, I only have two hands. Make yourself useful.”

            He hopped off the counter but instead of taking the spoon from her, he stood behind her, gripping her hips and nuzzling her neck, his breath warm, his lips wet as he pressed her back against him, “you will find that I can be incredibly useful.”

            Smiling, Molly pressed her head back against his shoulder, accepting the soft kiss he pressed to her mouth, sighing in utter contentment as his hands stroked her lower belly reverently. Her mind had latched on to the horrors the parents must have gone through, the horrors they were still wallowing in their home, their beloved child taken from them at such a young age. A part of her suddenly revolted against the idea of having a child, repulsed by the idea of the anxiety she would experience on a daily basis, the constant worry for her child’s safety, their wellbeing, responsible for their happiness.

            “There’s been something you’ve been wanting to say all evening Molly,” he growled against her lips, “out with it then,” he blinked rapidly, the muscles in his jaw ticking rhythmically and she felt his palm on her stomach increase in pressure, “oh _God_ , are you pregnant?”

            “No!” she turned in his arms, wanting to laugh at the expression on his face, “not yet,” she murmured, placing her hands on his solid chest, “I was just—I’ve been just…thinking about…you and me. And—and having a baby.”

            “What about it?”  
            “I guess I’ve been…wondering about the—the logistics?” she cleared her throat, distracting herself by watching the way the muscles in his throat worked when he swallowed, avoiding his piercing gaze.

            “Yes?” he pressed her to continue.

            “Would—would we tell people that you’re the…father?” her voice was small even though she had intended to sound stronger, more secure in her knowledge of their love, of the life they wanted to create together.

            “I suppose we must, especially when the child bears a striking resemblance to me and carries my name,” he said with a raised brow, running his hands down her back, “and before you ask the next silly question I see in your eyes—” he stopped, lifting her chin up to look at him with his fingertips, his voice carrying the warmth of a volcano, his eyes understanding, “everyone that matters will know that you and I are together, that we have _been_ together, that this child wasn’t an accident but a logical, next step in our relationship. I…I admit I am worried about the security of our baby, our child, but I am willing risk it all for her. Or him, when they get here. As for living arrangements,” he spoke over her, “I figured we would live here, since your flat is so much bigger than mine and give our child more room, and I would retain Baker Street as an office of sorts.”

            Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his throat as they held each other in the kitchen as tears rolled down her cheeks in wonderment, amazed at him, at the way he gave himself to the idea of becoming a father.


	14. Chapter 14

            Bad things came in 3’s.

            When the phone call from Mycroft came, worry settled into Molly’s chest like quicksand, sitting down and taking a deep breath before she answered her phone. Something was wrong, something was absolutely wrong.  

            The first bad thing had been Sherlock showing up at her flat, sopping wet with angry bruises forming all over his body, the distinct shape of a boot print on the side of his ribs. She treated his wounds as he told her about the last Thatcher statue he’d found, about his struggle with the thief he’d assumed had been chasing the black pearl, and instead having found a former colleague of Mary’s who wanted her dead. She had applied salve to the bruise forming across his abs, suspecting a broken rib he would never admit to, chewing her lip to keep herself from begging him not to go.

            He’d touched her face, forcing her to look up at him, “did you take the test?” he asked her softly, his wet hair slicked back from his face, his skin beautiful and smooth as he sat shirtless on the edge of her tub with her kneeling in front of him.

            She nodded silently, busying herself with inspecting the cut down his shoulder, “negative,” she murmured, pressing her lips together over the flood of tears. The miscarriage had broken her heart, and his too she suspected, though he never let on. They hadn’t even realized she’d been pregnant until she’d miscarried at only five weeks.

            Sherlock had drawn her up to stand on her knees, cupping her throat in his palms as he kissed the tip of her nose, “we’ll keep trying,” he’d promised her softly.

            The second thing had been Mary’s disappearance, heralded by John Watson and Sherlock showing up at her flat with Rosie in tow, carrying her bags and things. John had spoken rapidly, neither of them bothering to explain to her where they were going or what they had to do, assuring her that John had informed Mrs. Hudson that they would be sharing babysitting duties until they came back from tracking Mary down. Worried for the Watsons and Sherlock, wanting to kiss him goodbye before he left, she simply looked into his eyes as she took Rosie in her arms, wordlessly begging him to be careful.

            They’d returned with Mary in tow, Molly meeting them at Baker street, her fingers itching to touch him, to kiss him. The Watsons and Mrs. Hudson had barely left before she found herself dragged against Sherlock’s body. He’d kissed her slowly, running his hands down her back. “What’s wrong?” she’d asked, running her fingers through his hair, grabbing a handful and forcing him to look deep into her eyes.

            “I don’t know,” he’d whispered, walking away from her to lock the doors into the flat, “I don’t know,” he’d repeated, frowning slightly as he went.

            “Moriarty?” she asked softly as he came back to stand in front of her, reaching up to touch her fingertips to his jaw.

            “I don’t know, I can’t—I can’t figure out what’s happening,” he murmured, turning his head into her palm and kissing it, “there’s more than just this Ajay chasing Mary.”

            She’d taken him into her arms, sighing as he led her to his room and he’d spend the night inside her body, making love to her slowly. He eventually had his fill of her, exhausted, telling her what had happened with Mary, with Ajay. She held him in her arms, squeezing her eyes shut against the worry that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to trust him to be careful, to take care of himself, had to believe that he was surrounded by people in the field that would protect him.

            “What’s wrong?” she asked Mycroft now as a way of greeting, her heart thundering, wondering why she hadn’t felt it, why she hadn’t dropped dead if Sherlock’s heart had stopped, wondering how she was still breathing if he had stopped…

            _My soul_.

            “Molly,” the fact that he used her name filled her with terror, “I need you to come to the London aquarium,” he told her quietly and hung up. She spoke enough Mycroft Holmes to know he meant Sherlock needed her.

            She didn’t know how she hailed a cab, didn’t realize she had left the flat wearing her sweatpants and t-shirt in the cold London air, looking haphazard and heartbroken as waves of terror washed through her. The ambulance in front of the aquarium made her want to throw up and she had to catch herself against a car as she made her way through the crowd of police, forensics, paramedics, and spotting a few of Mycroft’s MOD men in their black suits. She frowned, watching the police escort an elderly woman towards one of the waiting cars, her hands cuffed behind her back, an expression of pride on her face.

            She ran inside without being stopped, the police at the scene giving her free access, watching her run inside. She followed the line of police towards the shark tank, remembering all those times she and her Sherlock had stood in front of the glaring blue aquarium, watching the sharks in wonderment, recalling his boyish excitement when the sharks passed over their heads.

            _Oh God._

_My soul._

            Molly didn’t realize she was muttering to herself, the same words, a horrendous mantra of “don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead,” as her legs carried her forward, her heart sinking into the ground with every step.

            The tableau that met her stunned her. Mycroft and Greg were standing side by side, Mycroft gripping the umbrella so hard that his knuckles were turning white. The sigh of relief that left her when she saw Sherlock standing on his two feet, healthy, unwounded, would haunt her forever. “Mary,” she gasped, “oh my God! _Mary_!” watching the way John stroked her limp hair, the bloom of blood on her shirt, her usually animated face still and pale.

            She walked forward, collapsing on the other side of her friend, touching her hand, torn between relief and terror, feeling Sherlock stand behind her, unable to resist the temptation to reach behind her and touch his leg, clutching the material of his trousers as she sobbed.

            _Mary_.

            Forcing herself to her feet, she went over to John when the medics came to take Mary, hugging him tightly, letting him hide his face in her hair as he refused to watch them put her on the gurney to carry her away, sobs wracking his body. She was watching Sherlock over his shoulder, holding his gaze, watching the pain spread through every molecule, every cell in his body. She soothed John as best she could, knowing there was nothing she or anyone could say now, knowing whatever comfort she offered would be ineffective, but she tried anyway, her eyes never once straying away from her Sherlock.

            “I can’t- I don’t—want to go home,” John muttered, pulling away from her, “I can’t- be there.”

            Sherlock had evidently heard, his voice was deep and coated with emotion, “we can go to Baker street. You and Rosie can stay there however long you need to John.”   

            The vehemence with which John spoke to Sherlock terrified her, stunning her as she watched him point a threatening finger at the taller man, “stay away from me, stay away from my family,” he growled breathlessly, “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t want to hear your name. Do you understand.”

            He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response, breezing past him to head out to the night air. Molly stood rooted to the spot, blinking as she tried to understand what she had just witnessed. She walked towards her love, with only Mycroft left now she didn’t hesitate touching his sleeve, “I’ll take him to my flat,” she murmured, “it’s—it’s best he’s not alone,” she told him, wrapping her fingers around his but he stood still, a cold block of ice, his eyes void of any warmth or emotion even as he curled his fingers around hers. With the other hand she reached up to wipe away his tears, “I’ll come to you, as soon as I can darling,” she told him, pressing her lips to his, trying to catch the sob that escaped against his mouth, wanting to tell him that she loved him…wanting to…

            Mycroft fell into step beside her, leaving Sherlock standing under the blue lights of the aquarium, mesmerized by the marine life that remained so detached and blissfully unaffected at the loss the world had suffered. Mycroft’s voice was soft as he told her what had happened, how Sherlock had provoked the secretary no one had suspected, and Mary had jumped in front of Sherlock and taken the bullet that had been meant for Sherlock. She moaned Mary’s name, needing to stop in her tracks, holding herself upright by throwing out a hand against the wall and taking deep breaths.

            _Thank God. Mary…Thank God._

She went to John outside, “we can go back to my flat,” she told Watson, “where’s—where’s Rosie?”  
            “I don’t want to see her,” John said too quickly, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop, “I don’t think I can stand to see her right now.”

            She laid a soothing hand on his shoulder, “that’s alright,” she murmured, “is she with Mrs. Hudson?” he answered with a nod, “I’ll text her then, let her…let her know that she’ll have to spend the night.”

            He nodded again silently, becoming an automaton after that, following her instructions without question, without comment. He got into the car Lestrade had ordered to take them to her flat, riding through London in silence as he stared blankly in front of him, Molly’s own silent tears unceasing. Every time she closed her eyes she saw her, saw her best friend, their Mary, the one and only…

            Silent and impassive, John collapsed on her sofa, his stare blank as she puttered aimlessly around her flat, trying to think of what to do, what to say. She helped him out of his jacket, hurrying to the kitchen to make him tea because what else was there to do in this situation? She stood by the kettle, waiting for it to boil as she let the tears fall, her chest and lungs burning from her sobs, but she couldn’t contain them. With trembling fingers, she texted her love, asking if he was alright, needing him to be with her so much that she couldn’t stand it.

            She stood there by herself, sobbing quietly and remembering the wonderous soul that Mary had was…had been…thinking about her friendship, about the way she had endlessly teased her about Sherlock after the baptism, the way she’d laughed in pure delight when they had one of their sleepovers and she could finally make them alcoholic beverages. Molly would never forget the first sleepover after the baptism, when Sherlock and John had left London for a few days for a case. Mary had laughed when she’d invited Molly over, “ _both_ our beds are empty!” Mary had managed to forge a friendship with Sherlock that Molly had adored, loved watching the way he was around her, teasing and carefree, his wits and skills matched by her, her take-no-shit attitude matching Sherlock’s surliness, the playfulness between them lovely to behold, always made her think of siblings.

            Taking deep, steadying breaths she carried the tea out to John, who hadn’t moved a breath since she’d been in the kitchen. She set the tea down in front of him, preparing it the way he liked, touching his arm but he didn’t seem to realize it.

            Oh God, how was he supposed to move on? How could he live?

His world had ended, his entire world had collapsed, ceased to exist.

She covered her mouth with her hand, strangling the loud sob that threatened to break her soul as she thanked God, as she prayed her thanks over and over again, grateful that her world hadn’t ended that day, that her love still lived and breathed, still filled her universe, and still would fill her days, for lifetimes to come.

Her world had nearly collapsed, and she hadn’t even known it, her heart had nearly stopped beating without her knowledge. The waves of relief that washed through her, the gratefulness to Mary for saving her life and sacrificing her own…Her Sherlock was safe, he was alive.

 _My soul_.

She looked at John, taking a deep breath, “is there anyone you’d like me to call?” she asked him softly.

The question drew him out of his thoughts, his eyes flat as he glanced at her, “Harry,” he murmured, rattling off more names that she recognized as family members and friends she’d met at the baptism and their wedding. Grateful for having something to do instead of wallowing in her guilt, in the knowledge of Mary’s death, the need in her body, the screaming ache in her for Sherlock’s heartbeat beneath her cheek. She walked away to the kitchen to make the phone calls, walking back into her living room to find John asleep on the sofa.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly sobbed when the front door opened with a jangle of keys and Sherlock walked in, looking withdrawn and gaunt the night of the funeral. She couldn’t talk, words lost upon her as she laid her eyes on him, her cup of tea falling from her trembling fingers, breaking with a clatter but she didn’t care. Hopping over the broken glass, wrapping her arms around his neck as she threw herself into his waiting arms, burying her face against his throat as she cried against his throat.

“Shh,” he breathed against her ear, “it’s alright, Molly,” he told her, stroking his hands down her back, “I’m here.”

She pulled back, looking up into his eyes, searching his emotionless, sea colored depths and tears spilled down her cheeks, unable to fathom the pain he was in. She hugged him harder against her, pressing her lips to his jaw, to his cheek, his throat as she held him against her, felt the life in him. She hadn’t seen him or heard from him since the aquarium, four days ago now. She’d texted him constantly, reaching out to him, and she knew he saw the texts, knew that he felt her touch even though he was grieving in his own way.

            Pressing her open mouth against his throat, she breathed him in, “where have you been?”  
            His voice was a soft rumble, “John needed you,” he murmured.

            “Didn’t _you_ need me?” she asked with a frown.

            “I _always_ need you,” he said silently, his mouth against her throat, “but John….” He didn’t finish his sentence, drifting off as he tightened his arms around Molly and she clung to her Sherlock, her tears wetting his neck. “How—how is he doing?”  
            Molly pressed her forehead to his, running her hands down his back, stroking the muscles beneath his coat. John hadn’t let Sherlock attend the funeral, had been violently adamant, vehement that he not be allowed anywhere near him or Rosie. She wanted to talk sense to John, wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, that Mary had jumped in front of that damned bullet at her own will…that cutting him off, cutting him away wasn’t fair. That cutting Rosie away from her godfather wasn’t fair.

            But she had decided against it, decided she would walk the tight rope between the two, and prayed that somehow, they would all live through this tragedy in-tact.

            “He’s existing,” she told Sherlock.

            He grunted, “Rosie?”  
            “Blissfully ignorant,” she told him, “she’s with Harry right now, I’m going over tomorrow to take care of her.”

            He nodded, staying silent as they clung on to each other, feeling the life in the other, mourning the loss of the life that had meant so much to them both. “I don’t know…I don’t understand how to help him,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “I feel so trapped, _muted_. What can I say? What can I do?”

            She held him tighter, “darling,” she called him, “I’ve been…thinking,” she looked up at him, “for…your sake and for Johns, why don’t you—why don’t you speak with his therapist? Maybe she’ll be able to help you…both?”

            He drew away from her slightly, moving to sit on the couch with a release of air, running a hand through his hair as he held the other one out for her, drawing her into his lap. “I’ve been thinking along those lines,” he told her, “I haven’t the slightest idea about what to do.”

            She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly as she kissed his cheek, “you’ll find a way Sherlock, you always do darling.”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was an issue with chapter 13 getting posted-- I had literally posted it on here three days ago but there was an in issue with the website so you're getting 14 today. 
> 
> Enjoy and trust me as we go along this ride! I got you!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving into Season 4 at breakneck speeds and I'm going to warn you- you're going to hate me, and you're going to want to come after me and I get it. I've deliberately made the chapters short to give us all a break-- any words of encouragement from y'all to keep writing at this point would mean the world.
> 
> Cheers!   
> xx

He heard Molly before he saw her, thought she would kick down the door of the flat the way she opened it, the damn thing banging against the wall with a ricochet. He remained in his armchair, not moving a single muscle even as he kept track of her walking in, wearing that gray sweater that made her look like she was older than Mrs. Hudson, bundled up against the cold weather in that hideous scarf that trailed miles behind her. He could feel anger and disappointment radiating from her in waves, washing through him like endless tsunamis.

            “Why aren’t you at my flat,” she asked without inflection, and he watched out of the corner of his eye as she pulled off her gloves vehemently, as if they had offended her by being so close to her skin.

            “Why would I,” his voice sounded too flat even to his own ears as he watched her stand in front of him.

            The thoughts in his mind screamed for her, the chambers of his mind palace, neglected and submerged under water with his grief, echoed with her name, with his need to hug her. “Come to me tonight,” she had urged him when he’d swung by the morgue that morning, right when Lestrade had been out of earshot and she’d gripped his sleeve.

            He had walked away feeling a gnawing hole in the pit of his stomach, the loneliness that he had forgotten in recent months pressing in on him, a roar in his mind that had fallen silent. John’s friendship, and Mary…Mary’s consistency and teasing loveliness, had breathed new life into him, the future he dreamt of with Molly making him float through all his fears, all his paranoia, all his logic. For the past few months he had fallen asleep feeling like a new man, a man worthy of the ecstasy, the life Molly brought him, a man worthy of Mary and John’s friendship, a man capable of loving his goddaughter…a man capable of caring for an infant, a man capable of becoming a father.

            But Mary’s death had reminded him that he couldn’t…that he wasn’t capable of having any of that. He wasn’t a man who could lead a normal life, if he was a man at all. He was just a brain, a mind trapped in a body, fooling himself into thinking that the rules of biology applied to him. The life he had been fantasizing about, the one that he had convinced himself he could have, was a dream, as unrealistic as any of the fantasies that shivered to life when he filled his mind with heroin or cocaine. He had so often fallen asleep dreaming of a life with Molly, holding their child between them, but that was as realistic as catching smoke in his hands…it was such a fleeting idea that he was shocked he’d talked himself into believing that tripe.

            Visiting the therapist had helped only slightly. He’d found her insight to not be all that helpful as she’d insisted he grieve himself first, that he would only help John Watson, his best friend, through the impossible if he dealt with it first.

But, how could he?

He was emotionally compromised, crippled, guilt nagging at him at the realization that he used Molly as his crutch, a dowsing rod of sorts to illuminate his emotions, to find them.

            He felt amputated as he listened to her breathing, unable to find the logic behind his desperate need to touch Molly’s skin, to feel her softness, her warmth against his. He understood the need to engage in coitus, understood the biological urge of it, especially when they had talked about procreating, but all he wanted was to be in her presence, to simply be able to brush her fingers with his, feeling her breath in the same room. But there was no logic in his world now, it was an impossible concept as he became buried in thoughts that anguished him, that made him an insomniac, making him itch for the relief that lived in the tip of a needle pressed into his vein.

            It was either that, or Molly….and he hadn’t let himself have either of them, thinking he didn’t deserve either of them now. Certainly, he didn’t deserve the release of his demons in Molly’s arms, didn’t deserve the peace that came when she held him in her arms and caressed him like nothing else mattered in the universe, didn’t deserve to look into those brown eyes and feel life, feel alive. He was living on borrowed time, snatched away from a young mother, from his best friend’s wife…. _my own best friend, Mary._

            “Answer me,” Molly’s quivering voice drew his attention back to her, realizing that she was now standing directly in front of him, vaguely wondering when she’d closed the doors that led into the flat.

            “John and Rosie need you more than I do, Molly,” he sounded exasperated, even as he begged her to hold him in his mind palace, even as his voice quivered with the force of his own tears, wanting to collapse into her, to drown inside her. But the weakness in his mind palace could no longer sustain him beyond it, the walls that he had let her breach had to be rebuilt with stronger material than before.

            “You don’t need me,” she accused him, and he had to look away from her, her chest rising and falling with her breath and he knew she was holding back tears.

            “Molly,” he growled her name, rubbing a hand over his features, trying to keep them blank as his finger curled from wanting to touch her.

            “What about what I need?” she asked him, “did you ever think that I would need you, Sherlock? That I’ve been holding my breath all goddamn day, wanting— _needing_ to be in your arms, needing _you_. You never thought of that?”  
            “Why would you need me, Molly,” he breathed, rolling his eyes, “there is _nothing_ you need that I can give you.”

            He waited for her to fight him, wanted her to yell at him, needing to feel her anger, her disappointment in him for having deprived her of her best friend…deprived them all of Mary…Deprived Rosie of her mother.

            _Fuck_.

            But the anger dissolved from her features. Molly knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers as she forced them away from his face, turning his hands to kiss the inside of his wrists, directly over his pulse. She watched him with such knowledge in her eyes that he felt the familiar sense of panic, of feeling so naked and exposed in her regard, unable to hide from her, to trick her with any façade that had fooled the world with for so long. “My darling,” she spoke softly, and he suspected Molly knew he would listen more closely if she kept her voice soft, leaning towards her to hear her words, “I always need you,” she told him, “I will always need you, whether you like it or not,” reaching up to cup his cheek in her palm, she wiped her thumb beneath his eye, “I thought we’d agreed to that already.”

            “The rules changed,” he murmured, “the ground shifted.”

            She gripped his knees, spreading his legs as she moved closer between them, standing on her knees, “not when it comes to you and me, Sherlock,” she told him, pressing her lips to the base of his throat and he bit the inside of his lips, fighting to keep himself neutral instead of screaming out in joy, in ecstasy at the contact, “those rules will only change when I say they’ll change, the ground will stay where it is until I say otherwise.”

            He raised an eyebrow at her, “what gives you the power to determine all of this?”

            Nestling her lips against his chest, he felt her fingers unbuttoning his shirt, “because I’m Molly Hooper, and you’re Sherlock Holmes,” she told him softly, “and in our secret world, I keep you safe no matter what, I keep your world steady, and you just have to trust me to do it for you.”

            Her words gave him the strength to lift his arms to grip her shoulders, “you wield too much power in this imaginary world.”

            “I just need to keep my world safe,” she opened his shirt, exposing his chest, pressing a kiss directly above his heart and he groaned, “and you should know Sherlock, I would do anything to keep my world safe, even when it wants to destroy itself.”

            His muscles released, the mental block that had kept him immobile, iced, melting in an instant as she peppered his chest with kisses. His arms hauled her up against him and he kissed her with the desperation that had him rattling in his skin for her comfort, for that taste of her that would remind him that he was alive, and that being alive wasn’t a fault. Guilt gnawed at him as he listened to her moaning his name, as he felt her softness penetrating him as he carried her to his bedroom, his eyes stinging as he thought that John would never hear his Mary again, would never taste, never hold her.

            He spread Molly out on his bed, stripping her slowly, closing his eyes and sighing as she ran her hands through his hair, watching him with brown eyes as he removed every stitch of clothing with reverence and care, kissing and licking every inch of skin he exposed. He carried her sighs in his bones, letting it echo in the halls of his mind palace, letting himself feel alive as she welcomed him between her thighs, as she ran her hands over his back and urged him against her. He saw her blink in confusion, her shock melting into understanding that only she could feel as he reached for the top drawer of his nightstand, covering himself with the condom before he pushed himself inside her heat. He buried his face against her throat as he thrust inside her, as he took his Molly, grunting in his ecstasy, moaning his heartbreak, sighing away his dreams of a child, of a life with Molly.

            She cried softly against his chest, his fingers stroking her hair as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

 


	16. Chapter 16

            Molly sat on her couch, the hot mug of tea warming her cold palms as she stared blankly at the wall in front of her, the telly blabbing mindlessly to itself. She thought about turning it off, but she couldn’t handle the silence, and didn’t want to turn on music because it always made her emotional, and she didn’t want to feel right now. She didn’t want to feel happy or sad, angry or content, jealous or confident. She simply wanted to sit and stare at the wall, and after the trauma of the past few days, she couldn’t deny herself the luxury of staring at the goddamn wall.

            It had been…a lifetime since Mary had passed, since she had mindlessly, selflessly given herself to give Molly her heart, to _keep_ Molly’s heart and home safe and whole. In reality, it had been mere days… days filled with waking nightmares, insomnia, endless tears, and a state of chaos that Molly prayed she never got used to. Days were filled with either work or caring for Rosie, the little girl spending a few nights with Molly in her flat, on those nights when her father couldn’t quite handle the nightmares, his new reality without Mary. Her nights were typically filled with Sherlock, but he never came to her when Rosie was spending the night, wanting to honor John’s wishes that he stay away.

            But the nights they did spend together were quiet and solemn, impossibly so at times. They never talked about having a baby, they never talked about the fact that he had started using condoms again on those rare occasions they made love. And when they did, he thrust himself with such desperation, with such force, with such anger that she didn’t dare question him about it, knowing that he would break and she didn’t have the strength to put him back together. She felt unhinged too, and they would wake up the next morning carrying their lover’s bruises, marks of the words they couldn’t say to each other.

She barely had the strength to keep herself from becoming unglued.

            How had she lost control?

            How had it all come to this?

            She scrubbed her face roughly with her palms, refusing to acknowledge the tears that wanted to slip down her cheeks. She had shed enough tears these past few weeks, for John, for Rosie, for Sherlock, for herself, for Mary…Mary

            _Oh God, Mary_.

            How she wished Mary was there now, a phone call or a text away. She would know what to do, what to say. She would tease a smile from Molly, guide her through it all, help her find the joy in her world but Mary… _Mary_.

            Guilt made her stand up as her mind’s eye brought her Sherlock, as she conjured him in her imagination as he had lain in her bed that morning. He’d had a white sheet draped over his lap as he’d watched her get dressed, his arms behind his head, the muscles in his biceps bulging and tempting her to touch and taste.

She started pacing through her apartment, feeling restless, feeling like she should go for a run around the city to exhaust herself. But it was raining, and she didn’t think her body would be able to handle the punishment of the jog she imagined. When she heard the jangle of keys, practically feeling his presence on the other side of her door, she steeled herself, carefully wiping away anything from her mind, from her features, from her eyes that would tell him about her day.

“Molly,” his voice was soft, the baritone reverberating throughout her core as he shut the door behind him. She frowned slightly when she noticed he wasn’t wearing his Belstaff, just black on black, his shirt open at the throat to reveal the sliver of snow-white skin that she would always taste on her tongue.

            “Hi,” she smiled, meeting him half way through the room to give him a kiss, just a simple press of her lips to his.

            “How was work? Anything of note to tell me?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on the sofa. She thought there was a symbolic ritual in the way he did that. Always, after she kissed him in greeting, he would shrug out of his Belstaff and jacket, tossing them on the couch or sometimes even bothering to hang them on the peg, methodically unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up over his thick forearms. It was as if he was leaving his public self outside, getting ready to present her with the truth of who he was, the truth of who he became when he was with her.

            “No,” she murmured, walking away from him distractedly and sitting on the sofa, curling into her side as she watched him, “nothing exciting.”

            He sat down next to her with a sigh, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the floor in front of him. Everything in him told her of the volumes he wanted to speak, volumes he wanted to tell her, and the hesitation terrified her, let her conjure thousands of scenarios, words that were daggers. She waited for him to speak as patiently as she could, wondering if she even wanted to know.

            But there was pain in the way he held himself, and she couldn’t stand the idea of letting him endure his pain alone.

            She reached out, touching his arm lightly, “what is it,” she asked softly.

            Sherlock cursed, lifting his impossibly blue eyes to look at her with all his aching sadness in his gaze, “I got this in the mail,” he told her, reaching into the pocket of his jacket.

            When Molly saw the four words written on the DVD, she gasped, looking at him, “is it him?”

            Sherlock shook his head, “it’s from Mary…uhm, she made it in case something happened to her.”

            “Oh God,” she breathed, “oh Sherlock,” she scrambled into his lap and knew how much it had hurt him when he held her without hesitation, clung to her without a moment’s thought. “Darling,” she kissed his cheek, her tears flowing freely as he urged her closer, “I’m so sorry.”

            “I’m alright,” he said gruffly, “she just uh, asks me to take care of John in case …in case.”

            Resting her cheek against his shoulder, she frowned slightly, running her hands over his shoulders, down his bulging biceps, feeling the strength in his muscles, the warmth of his familiar skin, “what aren’t you telling me?” she asked softly.

            He shook his head, “nothing worth mentioning yet,” he pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his palms, brushing her mouth with his thumb, “that bit I’m still working out. I don’t want you to worry,” he kissed her lightly, “I promise to tell you when—when I know what it is I’m telling you.”

            “That’s awfully cryptic,” she murmured, the all-too familiar sensation of worry for him blooming inside her exhausted, heavy body, “I don’t like it.”

            His smile broke her heart as he kissed her again, “I know,” he smiled, “but I need you to trust me the way I trust you.”

            She resettled into his arms again, laying against him with a sigh, enjoying the sensation of his arms wrapped around her, the way he played with her hair and pressed absent kisses to her forehead, her temples. His love contained in every movement, his blindness to it baffling.

He took a deep breath and she relished the sound of life in his body, closing her eyes against the senseless, panicked thoughts that bombarded her. She counted his heartbeats, listened to his lungs fill with air and release it warm huffs against her ear. There was undeniable pride in what she felt for him, pride in how he had been handling the hell they had all been living through.

            When he hadn’t come to her flat, she had assumed that he had reverted, digressed to the block of ice, the marble made man without a heart, incapable of emotion, forsaking them in favor of logic and logical thoughts. He had tripped, and she sensed that he had tried his best to shut her away, to block himself from the comfort he felt in her arms, her affections, if he didn’t want to acknowledge it as love. But he hadn’t been able to lock himself away, hadn’t been able to keep himself distant and divorced the way he would have only months ago.

            But now…she had to destroy that peace, “Sherlock,” she pushed away from him, her palms resting against his chest, but she remained sitting in his lap, nestled against his warmth.

            “Yes?” he prodded when she fell silent, his eyes somehow taking the bluish gray hue of his t-shirt and becoming the deepest shade of blue she had ever seen. There was such depth in his eyes now, such added dimensions with those laughter lines that marked his beautiful face, age settling into him with beauty that made her smile with affection.

            “About…about the baby,” she cleared her throat, “about you—you and me having a baby…our baby…”

            He shook his head, “I can’t talk about that right now Molly.”

            “Sherlock—”

            He shook his head again stubbornly, “I’m…asking you to have mercy on me right now, and I’m begging you not to talk about our…not to talk about this until I’ve caught my breath. If you do, whatever pinky hold I have on reality will be lost and I don’t know where I will end up, but I have a sneaking suspicious it won’t be a good place for either of us.”

            She took a deep breath and nodded, kissing him instead of letting him see the sadness in her eyes, “alright darling,” she agreed against his mouth, “Mrs. Hudson told me about…about Norbury, about her saying that word to you if you ever thought—”

            “I want you to do the same,” he interrupted her, “I can’t afford to be that ignorant ever again, I can’t have it cost me so much, have it cost so many people so much.”

            “Sherlock,” she breathed and could only hug him against her, and let him believe that her tears were for Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr followers know this so you should know too-- as of right now there's 27 chapters written in total. You guys are in good hands, I promise. 
> 
> xx


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! And as always, comment and let me know what you think! 
> 
> xx

            Molly looked at the letter John had handed her, resettling Rosie against her hip as she shook her head, “John, I can’t—I can’t give this to him,” she tried to hand it back to him, feeling like the piece of paper would burn her palm, feeling phantom stings, echoes of the daggers Sherlock would feel.

            “You have to,” he said resolutely, grabbing his jacket as he got ready to head out, “for Rosie’s sake.”

            “But John,” she breathed.

            “You do love Rosie don’t you?” he interrupted.

            “What a stupid question,” she admonished him, rocking her goddaughter.

            “Then you will protect her from that—that _creature_ ,” his tone made Rosie fussy, her full lower lip trembling as the vehemence penetrated even her understanding of human emotion.

            “Hush darling,” she soothed her goddaughter, “it’s alright,” she told the little girl before turning her attention back to John, “he’s her godfather, she needs him, as much as he needs her. And you.”

            “The greatest mistake of my life was meeting that man, and deciding to name him Rosie’s godfather,” he shook his head, snarling, “I have cursed her with him, and I’ll be _damned_ if I let him anywhere near her.”

            He left without even saying good-bye to Rosie, leaving them to stare after him as he slammed the door shut. When Rosie fussed after him, looking forlornly at the shut door with eyes that were so like Mary’s, Molly murmured to her, soothing her, “it’s alright,” she promised her, walking towards the nursery, hoping to distract them both, “it’ll all be alright little love,” she murmured in the deafening silence of the house as she sat Rosie down on the ground amidst mountains of toys.

            As she and Rosie played together, spending the day alternating between practicing to roll over and even try crawling, playing and reading, Molly’s thoughts drifted to Sherlock, the letter burning a hole in her pocket. He had kept himself busy, taking case after case, most of them mindless, cases that he usually wouldn’t give the time of day to.

There was a desperation that drove him these days, as if he simply wanted to exhaust his body as whatever thoughts tried to cripple him. The occasions when he came to her, or asked her to meet him at Baker street, no longer concerned about Mrs. Hudson finding them out, their interactions were distant and strained. She still reveled in his touch, blossomed in his affections and kisses, sighing his name and her ecstasy, but there was something between them now, an invisible film, as thin as the latex of the condoms he used, keeping them from each other, from truly touching each other the way they used to.

            Their bodies made love and clung to each other, bringing them physical ecstasy and sensations that left each breathless and wanting more. But their words held that distance that she couldn’t bring herself to address. She knew where it came from, understood how it had been created but too exhausted to fix it on her own, too overwhelmed to open that can of worms. So, it festered as she let their conversations carry on in their new and halting way, awkward and uncomfortable as she bled from the pit of her soul, wishing senselessly and hopelessly that everything would right itself.

            When the doorbell rang, she knew it was him. She always knew when it was him, always knew when he was near as if she had radar that was tuned to his body, tracking him without her knowledge. “Come on baby,” she murmured, picking up their goddaughter, knowing she would have to give him the letter, whether she wanted to or not. The feeling of being strangled, she knew, had nothing to do with the high collar of her shirt.

            The conversation couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, perhaps a few seconds, her fingers trembling as she’d handed it to him, watched the way he lowered his eyes as if ashamed of John’s actions, ashamed that he had to take that letter from him. “You don’t have to read it right now,” she told him quickly, wanting to at least protect himself from the devastation John’s words would bring. Exhaustion made her selfish, made her feel like she had to protect herself, insulate herself from his broken heart because in the end, she would have to mend it.

            She’d turned to walk away, had even closed the door behind her but she didn’t have the heart to leave him on the other side. Wanting to respect John’s wishes even though he wasn’t there, she still walked back outside, calling out for him just as he’d been about to walk away, “Sherlock!” but somehow his name sounded strange on her tongue now, especially with that broken expression on his face, “darling,” she caught the sleeve of his Belstaff, unable to fathom what she could say to him as Rosie cooed for her godfather, reaching for him as if wanting to touch him the way Molly was, “I’m sorry,” she managed, “Stella and Ted have her tonight, if you want to come over?”

            “I always want to come over,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest smile. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before he turned around, Rosie and Molly watching him until he disappeared from view, the corner of her mouth seeming to tingle with the touch of his lips. Rosie looked at her with Mary’s eyes, rather incredulously, as if offended that her godfather hadn’t given her the attention she wanted, wondering why they didn’t go with him.

            It took her half an hour to calm down the offended little girl, winding up on the floor to take a nap, the small weight of Rosie against her chest centering Molly, keeping Sherlock’s broken expression from her thoughts as she drifted off into exhausted sleep. Lately, napping had become as much of an event in her life as it was for Rosie, permanently exhausted and heavy, her mind and body working in tandem to sap her energy.

            She left John’s house after Stella and Ted came to pick up the little girl, deciding to get a cab instead of riding the Tube to her flat, watching London go by the car window without really seeing it or understanding what she saw. When she got there, she could see that he was already home, the lights of her flat blazing as she walked up the stairs, opening the front door to find him sitting on the couch in his shirt sleeves, his hair a mess as if he’d run his fingers through his hair a thousand times, staring at the screen of her commandeered laptop.

            He looked up immediately when she opened the door, leaning back as he watched her come inside, his expression guarded, inscrutable as she shrugged out of her overcoat, “how’s Rosie?” he asked.

            “She’s fine,” she murmured, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, “she likes going to Stella’s anyway, they have two little ones themselves and she likes playing with them.”

            “Good,” he nodded, “good,” he muttered again.

            They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments, watching each other as the air around them crackled with unspoken words and a tension that she had thought they had forsaken for good. She wanted them to be honest with each other, wanted both of them to lay all their cards on the table and forget secrets, but she also knew neither had the strength. If they both broke, they would never be able to recover, never glue themselves back together enough to continue living. “Sherlock,” she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the words she really wanted to say away and bringing forth the necessary ones, “if I tell you how sorry I am, if I tell you—if I tell you what I would give to not have been forced to give you that letter—”

            He held up a broad hand to quiet her, “Hush,” he said softly, shaking his head, “hush Molly, there’s no need for you to apologize. The letter was…the letter was necessary. I think I know…how to listen to the last part of Mary’s message now.”

            She rubbed the cold center of her chest, “oh?” she breathed.

            Holding out his hand for her, she took it without hesitation, letting him draw her into his lap in that familiar way he always did, making her feel and seem more graceful than she was as she settled into his lap. “I feel like I need you sitting against me, skin to skin, breath for breath while I tell you this,” he breathed, reaching up and she laughed when he started to unbutton the high collar of her shirt, “but first, we have to get rid of this,” the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, “you truly have the worst fashion sense.”

            Chuckling, Molly let him unbutton the shirt, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye, over the laugh lines that were etched there, that drew her attention more and more these days. She wondered whether it was the physical beauty that claimed her kisses or if it was the need to remind herself that he did laugh, that he did smile enough to create those beautiful lines. His palm was warm against her throat and chest as he soothed her skin, his lips finding that spot behind her ear that made her sigh. She closed her eyes and prayed he spent the next few weeks thinking the massive sweaters she wore was just a fashion faux paux. “What do you need to tell me?” she asked him, shivering at the feel of his tongue swiping over her ear, the peculiar, wet sensation of his tongue strange and pleasurable.

            He pulled away, “you’re not going to like this Molly.”

  


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong language ahead- just a warning!   
> let me know what you think!  
> xx

            “So you’re going to commit suicide,” she said quietly, sliding off his lap as if she couldn’t stand his touch.

            “No,” he said slowly, reaching deep within himself for patience as he tried to once again explain to her his plan, “this is a calculated risk.”

            “This isn’t a _risk_ ,” she shook her head, “this is _suicide,_ Sherlock, this is…this is _insanity_.”

            “How many times have I been wrong?” when she looked at him with raised brows he let his breath explode from his lungs.

            _Norbury._

            “Not often, darling, but when you’re wrong,” she shook her head, “You’re spectacularly wrong. And this time, this _plan_ , is incredibly, monstrously _wrong_!”

            “It will work, Molly,” he growled, watching her stand up as if she couldn’t sit any longer, taking his heart and lungs with her as she walked away from him towards the kitchen, “I know it will. You just—you just have to have trust me!”

            She nearly threw the tea kettle, her movements jerky as she filled it with water, presenting her back to him as she stood by the sink, rain and thunder crackling outside as if she controlled it. He remembered one of her favorite quotes from her favorite singer, _I can control the weather with my moods. I just can’t control my moods is all_. He waited for her with abated breath, the illogical part of him that lived and breathed for Molly Hooper unable to fathom what he would do without her.

            The logical part of him knew he would carry on his plan as he needed, that he would successfully trick the world into the thinking he was beyond help, his addiction getting the best of him even as he found the biggest bad guy he could imagine. He trusted his own abilities, even high off his tits, to attract the attention of a bear and poke it with a stick, somehow keeping himself alive in the process. But the bit of Sherlock that belonged to Molly now, the rooms in his mind palace that she had decorated with colors in every hue of the rainbow, as jolly as her jumpers, needed Molly to be with him. He would succeed with or without her help, his plan would work one way or another even if she didn’t cooperate, but he was desperate for her to turn around and tell him she was with him.

            “This plan of yours,” she said, her voice thick as she refused to turn around, “this is just an excuse to—to throw everything away, to poison yourself and blind yourself to everything that’s happening around you. This isn’t a plan to save John, Sherlock. This is just some fucking idiotic excuse for you to hole up in Baker street with your needles!” she was yelling now, finally turning, her expression fierce, turning red with every word that increased in volume and passion, “If you want to help John, you would find another way. You don’t have to….to _poison_ your self with cocaine and heroin and throw yourself at the mercy of some- some _murderer_. This is _you_ asking _my_ permission to commit suicide and _fuck you_ but I’m not letting it happen.”

“Oh, you know me that well then, do you?” he snarled, his tone nastier than he’d intended and the look in his eyes cold, as unforgiving and unrelenting as a block ice, eyes chips of anger.

But she wasn’t going to soothe his anger, wasn’t going to wrap him in her arms and comfort him until the anger subsided. She clenched her fists at her sides, “you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your right pec. You have a mole right in the center of your back. You love tea but you’re so scatter brained that it goes cold so often that you give up wanting to drink it because you have to warm it. You detest coffee but you love the rush of caffeine. You stay away from alcohol because you’re worried that you’re going to get addicted to that too, and when you do drink, you detest how bubbly you become and you’re always worried someone will take advantage of you while you’re in that state. You wake up in the middle of the night exactly at 4:32, and always with sleep paralysis. If I’m not there you never fall back asleep. You secretly enjoy watching football, and when someone asks you, you say you’re vaguely interested in the English Premier League and your favorite team is Arsenal, but you always root for Liverpool, especially after 2005. You have an incorrigible sweet tooth, and can never have enough chocolate, so you never have any around the flat because again, you’re afraid of the addiction. You need two pillows always, sleep spread eagle and your feet need to always be exposed and your back always needs to be covered. The first fight you got into at school was because you heard someone insulting Mycroft. You’ll never admit it, but you adore your brother and would kill for him. You can’t sleep with anything more than a t-shirt and your boxers and would walk around naked all the time if it was legal. You detest guns but understand their utility in your line of work. Your worst fear is disappointing those you love, but even worse, you’re terrified of being alone.”

She raised an eyebrow at home, clenching her jaw, enjoying the way his mouth was lax, gaping at her in shock, “still want to claim I don’t know you?”

He stood there speechless, squeezing his eyes shut against her words. His hands were trembling, and he didn’t even realize it until he tried to rub his forehead in frustration. It was startling for him to hear her acute knowledge of him, knowing his fears better than even he knew them, voicing them with such accuracy and dexterity. “What did you say a few nights ago?” he asked, “you’re Molly and I’m Sherlock,” he breathed, “and you know that this is going to happen, whether you help me or not. But if you do—if you _do_ help me, it’ll go even smoother.”

“Sherlock,” tears swam in her brown eyes, her anger melting away into sorrow, “I can’t,” she shook her head as the words came out haltingly, “I can’t watch you destroy yourself, I just _can’t_. Don’t ask me to.”

“I have to,” he murmured, “because otherwise Molly, I _will_ die. If you’re there, if you help me—” he cleared his throat, “I don’t want to die, not now.”

Her voice was a soft whisper, barely audible even though she stood only a few feet from him, her eyes pleading, “don’t ask me.”

“This is important, I may not be able to articulate why, but,” his voice was shaking, and he tried to ignore it, “I promise you it is,” he shrugged, “I need you, Molly Hooper. I. Need. _You_.”

“My Sherlock,” she breathed, “what if John Watson isn’t the man you think he is? What if he doesn’t figure out what you’re up to in time?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he tried to sound reassuring even as the doubt nagged at him, a voice long forgotten echoing from the depths of his mind palace, the ghost of Norbury carrying with the madness of his other self, of Moriarty.

“Sherlock! There are so many variables at work here! So many things can go wrong!” her voice was growing in volume again, tears streaming down her cheeks unchecked, her frustration with him growing and he felt amputated, unable to sooth her, to reassure her that his plan would work, that he had thought of everything. “What if John—”

“I _need_ to do this for him Molly, I have to at least try to draw him out,” he insisted, “he’s—he’s my best friend. You’ve given me…a heart, a life, dreams of a life beyond my work. Whatever thoughts I have now, half of them, more than half of them belong to you because you’ve made them possible. Do you think the version of me that you first met was ever capable of this…this _domesticity_? Was capable of thinking about anything beyond work, let alone even consider having a child?” he swallowed, watching the glimmer of pain that shot through her, watched her scramble to hide it from him, “John Watson saved me, he…he gave me the day to day pieces of sanity, helped me become whole so I can be with _you_. You gave me the heart and John gave me the ability to understand the necessity for it, the necessity to have a heart, even if it lives outside myself.”

She looked away from him, wiping her tears with an impatient hand, shaking her head, “you can’t die, Sherlock, do you understand? I need you to promise that—that if John fails, if you feel that you’re in danger, that you’re being overpowered, you will get yourself out, that you will have a backup plan,” she glanced at him from beneath her lashes, “don’t let me lose my home.”

“I won’t,” he swore, with all that he was, “on all that I am, all that you’ve made me, I won’t. I will find my way back to you.”

           

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think and, as always, enjoy!

            The deal was that he wouldn’t come to her flat, that she wouldn’t go to Baker street, that they wouldn’t see each other until he vanquished the monster he needed John’s help with. She didn’t want to see him as he pumped his veins full of heroin and cocaine and God knew what else, and he was too ashamed of the state he would be in to let her be near him, to let her see him in that condition. She spent so much of her time in a constant state of worry over him, expecting a phone call any minute that he had overdosed, that he had lost himself in the drugs and let them carry him away from her.

            _My soul_.

            He sent her texts every now and again, in his more lucid moments to check on her, to touch her in a small way, to simply make sure she knew he was alive. Mycroft called and texted her several times, asking if she had visited him, or heard from him but she told him the truth for the most part—that she hadn’t seen Sherlock in weeks. She would crawl into bed every night with tears in her eyes, her mattress so cold and endless without his warmth, staring at the darkened ceiling as sleep eluded her, smelling him on her pillow. So very cold without him…She counted the hours until sunrise, knew morning would force her to dash for the bathroom, making her heave and empty her stomach of all its contents.

            In a way she was grateful for the forced separation, giving her time to figure what she was going to do, how she was going to do it…but her heart dropped with every call, with every text, with every headline that appeared on the news. She waited for him to catch the monster he was looking for her and prayed that he didn’t find the creature. Oh, she trusted him to keep his word, trusted him to come back to her when it was all over, to come out of it alive, but God, she didn’t trust the people he had around him now.

            She was sitting on the bathroom floor one morning, a wet washcloth pressed against the back of her neck as she caught her breath when she got a series of disjointed texts from him:

_Culverton Smith._

_Cereal killer._

_Serial*_

_Big bad wolf._

_Bring your coat._

_My coat @ ur flatt._

_My coat at your flat._

_Need ambulance._

_2 January._

_1._

            Followed by a London address she didn’t recognize, then the name of a hospital. She frowned at the texts, wondering was happening as she googled Culverton Smith on her phone. She looked at Smith’s pictures, watched clips of him interacting with people, reading every bit of news she could find on him and wondered how he’d been brought him into Sherlock’s crosshairs.

            _A serial killer._

She responded quickly, giving him the name of a nurse that worked at that particular hospital. She had known the nurse, Shelby Cornish, for quite a number of years, from their days together as interns at Bart’s before Shelby had moved on to bigger and better things.

_Oooh! She’ll come in handy_

_Doubt thou the stars are fire;_

_Doubt that the sun doth move;_

_Doubt truth to be a liar;_

She smiled at the lines, chuckling as he left it unfinished, murmuring in the quiet of her bathroom, “but never doubt I love.” He was definitely high, because in his sobriety, Sherlock would refuse to acknowledge his extensive knowledge of Shakespeare and his line by line memorization of _Hamlet_ and _Henry IV_ and _Richard III,_ let alone speaking so freely of love or loving her. Her hand moved to her lower belly as she closed her eyes, praying that it would all be over soon, and she would be back in his arms.

            _My soul._

            The weeks the led to January 2nd felt like they would never end, filled with insomnia and worry, Molly itching to go to him, to see him with her own eyes but knowing he wouldn’t allow it, and she didn’t think she could stomach the sight of him high either. She remembered the last time she had, when John had brought him to the lab for the urine test after the wedding… _God_. That was a lifetime ago.

            Christmas and New Years passed her by and she spent them both curled on the couch, her hand pressed against her belly as she dreamt of home and hoped for home. Her Sherlock texted her on Christmas Eve, a simple “merry Christmas Molly Hooper”. His text on New Years was a bit more elaborate, making tears well in her eyes as she read his words

_Wish I could kiss you into the new year_

_I miss your breath in my lungs_

            And she didn’t hear from him after that.

            Worry was her constant companion now, anxiety her new best friend, the two as close to her as her own shadow as she moved towards January 2nd, as she moved to the day of reckoning. She lost count of how many times during her day she had to stop and take deep steadying breaths, reminding her body to calm itself, that she wasn’t living or existing for herself anymore. Her interns looked at her like she was losing her mind but didn’t say anything as she closed her eyes in the middle of a lecture or an autopsy, trying not to think about him, trying not to worry.

            It was an uphill battle that she often lost, but she tried to fight it anyway.

            Whatever excuse she gave her supervisors worked and she was assigned an ambulance and a driver for the morning of January 2 without much fuss. She didn’t know whether to be flattered by the hospital’s trust in her judgement or slightly concerned that they had just given up on her actions making any sense, simply letting her do whatever she wanted. After giving the driver the address, she sat in the back of the ambulance with his Belstaff in her arms, her face pressed against it as she inhaled his familiar scent.

            God, it smelled like _home_.

            _My soul_.

            Excitement and bone-crunching dread filled her as they neared their destination. She felt starved, deprived, broken, empty without him, her eyes feeling like they had been robbed of their light, her skin tingling with the need for his touch, her senses withering without Sherlock. Feeling slightly overdramatic, she smiled against his coat, thinking her lips even tingled from the lack of his kisses. There was a logic to it of course, he was her heart and soul, and she had been without it for so long…

            But Heaven help her she didn’t want to see him in his current state, couldn’t imagine what he would look like, sound like…feel like. He’d been making such great strides, becoming a better man but now…

            _My soul_.

            _My soul._

            But he needed her to be a good little actress now, to convince John Watson that she had no idea what was happening, that she had no idea that he’d been deliberately planning everything for weeks and weeks, that this was mostly an act.

Unfortunately for her, it was _mostly_ an act…

            Taking a deep steadying breath when the ambulance came to a halt, she set the coat down on the bench, pressing her palm to her stomach before climbing out. Hands in her coat pockets, letting all her worry show on her face she rang the doorbell, frowning at the Aston Martin parked askew in the drive, the bins upturned, the look of shock on John Watson’s face upon seeing her satisfying.

            But oh…oh… _oh_ when she saw _him_ approach from behind John, when she saw the love of her life wearing his blue housecoat, his beautiful jaw covered with stubble, his eyes flat, bloodshot…She clenched her jaw over the tears, barely listening to what he was saying, vaguely hearing his crack about coughing on her command as he breezed past her. Swallowing, she looked back at John, asking him what was going on as the fine hairs on her arms, the back of her neck stood up.

            “Check him out will you?” John murmured, pursing his lips in disapproval, his navy-blue eyes following Sherlock’s movements behind her.

            She didn’t respond, just nodded, walking to the ambulance, rubbing the center of her chest as she watched him sitting on the bench, gripping the edge as he looked down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of two days ago, I've completed Stranger Than Kindness in its entirety and I'm planning on posting updates every other day! Thanks for your patience and your trust in me!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go!  
> Enjoy!

            Molly didn’t say anything as she climbed in, shutting the doors behind them, closing the screen that would make it impossible for the driver to hear their conversation. She didn’t say anything as she sat on the seat opposite him, didn’t say anything as she watched him sway where he sat even though the vehicle was stationary. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the ambulance floor between his feet, his eyes drifting as if he couldn’t keep them open.

            His voice was thick, garbled as he spoke, “there’s a part of my brain that’s starving for you to touch me, Molly Hooper, and there’s another part of me that wants you to sit as far away from as possible.”

            The tears she’d been holding at bay broke free and she couldn’t contain the sobs, couldn’t even process the shock and disbelief in his eyes as she rose from her seat to crawl into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. It took him a heartbeat but eventually he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as the car began to move, as she sobbed her worry, her heartbreak, her anxiety, her love for him against his throat. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move or even breath, simply holding her in the circle of his arms, the hum of the tires on the road the only other sound beside her sobs.

            “Look what you’ve done to yourself,” she moaned, “just _look_ at you! Sherlock,” she pulled away, looking into his unfocused eyes. She cupped his jaw in her palm, his inexplicable ginger beard coarse against her palm as she stroked her thumb beneath his eye. Molly had been obsessed with his eyes ever since she first met him, ever since she’d been thunderstruck by them in university, lifetimes ago. They always held such intelligence, such acuity and depth, sharp, incapable of missing a detail, steady in their slightly bored perusal of the world. And now…now they were unseeing, unfocused…not her Sherlock’s, not with their dulled blue.

            _My soul_.

            “You promised me you’d keep my home safe,” she whispered.

            “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he asked, “relatively alive,” he conceded, leaning back against the wall of the ambulance, taking her with him. When his hand cupped her stomach, she wondered briefly if he knew, if he’d managed to guess as his palm rested against her gently rounding belly, “you’ve chosen a condemned building to call your home.”

            She shook her head, “no,” she murmured, “it just needs some periodic renovation. It has such a solid foundation,” she touched his lips with her fingertips.

            “I don’t know whether you’re out of your mind, or I am for trying my hardest to throw it away,” he said absently, his hand still on her stomach as his eyes dropped to her lips, “ah,” he said softly, “there’s my conundrum again, beating at the walls of my mind, a thousand soldiers declaring their war, marching, demanding I steal your breath into my own lungs and another thousand, righteous in their indignation, march in controversy to the first, refusing to let me touch you in my ruined state.”

            Unable to fathom a reply, she took his arm in her hands, lifting his sleeve, the sight of the track marks too familiar on his skin now. She didn’t want to touch them directly, but her thumbs traced alongside the angry veins, “have you been using clean needles at least?” she murmured.

            “’Course,” his voice was a deep growl, his eyes holding fuzzy suspicion.

            She reached over to the kit that was next to the stretcher, taking a few supplies to clean the needle marks, methodically touching the peroxide-soaked cotton ball against the angry welts, “when was the last time you ate?”  
            “No idea,” he said in that monotone.

            “Water?”

            He laughed, “I asked Hudders for tea today and got thrown into the boot of her car,” he shrugged a shoulder.

            She let out a puff of air she hoped sounded like amusement, throwing the cotton ball away, dragging her eyes up to his, “I’m scared,” she whispered, “Sherlock, I can’t lose you.”

            “Oh Molly,” he rolled his eyes, shifting them so she was sitting on the edge of the stretcher while he lay on his back. He gripped her hand in his, putting it against his chest, his free hand stroking her stomach. “What makes you think I’m worth anything right now.”

            She slipped her hand beneath his shirt, spreading her fingers over his beating heart, the rhythm beneath her palm rapid, his skin too hot. His smile was ethereal as he closed his eyes as if absorbing the sensation, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, “beautiful ruin,” she said softly, “but you’re still worth the universe to me Sherlock,” she bent down and brushed her mouth to his.

            “Are you—are you sure you want to kiss me?” his eyes were searching her with clear desperation now.

            Not bothering to answer, she kissed him slowly, balancing herself against him with her hand on his chest as the ambulance rocked them through London. His breath left him in a warm huff as he opened his mouth, letting her kiss him slowly, tasting each other with easy familiarity, with desperate gasps of air, her thumb stroking the bare skin of his chest. “I need to tell you something, a secret,” she murmured, thinking that she had so many secrets from him now, she wouldn’t know where to begin, “a reason why I need you alive.”

            He frowned up at her, the hand on her stomach felt like it increased in pressure, but she was sure it was her imagination. “Oh?” he breathed.

            “When—when Mycroft told me that Mary—Mary died saving your life,” she pressed her mouth over the sob that bubbled from her chest, but she had promised herself she would tell him, swore to herself that she would trust him with this secret at least. He clenched his jaw and she kissed him again, needing to remind him that life was precious, that it was worth fighting for, “I was so relieved,” the shock in his eyes, the way even in his drugged state they flared in indignation shamed Molly. But she forced herself to continue, “all I could think was thank God it wasn’t Sherlock, thank God he didn’t die, thank God—thank God my world wasn’t the one that was destroyed that day. I’ve been wracked with the guilt of it that relief for so long Sherlock, you can’t—can’t waste it away, you can’t die. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” she murmured, stroking her finger beneath his eye.

            “I understand,” he breathed, “but I don’t at the same time.”

            She pressed her lips to the base of his throat, his long fingers buried in her hair as he held her against him, his nails scratching her scalp. She closed her eyes, and let everything slip away from her, let her shadows melt away as she tasted his skin, as she felt him against her, alive. “When is this going to be over?” she murmured, pulling up to look into his eyes.

            “Soon, a few hours,” he told her, “exactly three hours and twenty-five minutes.”

            Smiling slightly, Molly kissed him again, “I hate this,” she murmured against his lips, “I hate that I’m not going to be with you. Sherlock, if anything goes wrong—”

            “It _won’t_ —”

            “But what if it does,” she pressed, tear slipping down her cheeks and he absorbed them with his skin, “what if John doesn’t put two and two together?”

            “He will,” he gripped her hand over his chest, “trust John Watson,” he murmured, “he won’t let either of us down, I promise you.”

            She kissed him again as the ambulance began slowing down, her tears real as she pushed away from him, letting him remain laying down on the stretcher as she threw the ambulance doors open, sitting down with her head buried in her hands. Molly wanted none of this, practically hissing at the fresh air, knowing she would be content if she spent eternity resting against him on the stretcher.

Her hands were trembling, her stomach weak, and she knew her mussed hair would look like they were from her own worrying hands and not the reassuring touch of her lover. She looked up when the black limo pulled up, watched John Watson walk over to her.

            Dutifully, as she’d practiced, she told John that his body was deteriorating and if he continued to take what he was taking, he would die in weeks. She wanted to add that it would happen over her dead body, that if she had to strap him down to a gurney and force his sobriety before John could come out of the shell he’d been after Mary’s death, she would. She bit back that part though, shaking her head at Sherlock, knew her voice trembled with real emotion when she shouted, “I’m stressed, you’re dying!” and God, he _was_ dying.

            _My soul_.

            His eyes were bright as he looked at her, his answer quick-witted, no warmth for her in those flat blue orbs as he straightened his coat, glancing away as if he thought looking at her would give him away. It always gave them away…Their conversation was cut short when Culverton Smith and about two dozen reporters came out of the building behind him, Sherlock speaking rapidly as he turned to face him. She saw him put his hand behind his back, wiggling his fingers for her, a gentle reminder that he belonged to her no matter what he said or did, that even though he was high, the pit he had crawled into still had a ladder he could use to climb up to her.

            _I don’t want to die, not_ _now_ he’d told her.  

            When Smith hugged him, she shivered in renewed terror, watching his expert hand slip into Smith’s pocket and transfer his phone seamlessly into his Bellstaf’s pocket. She was the only one who saw, her heart thundering as the word “serial killer” reverberated in her mind. He fell into step behind Smith and his entourage, John alongside him.

But when Sherlock turned to look at her, his eyes were clear and lucid. Molly clung to what he told her in that glance, clung to the reassurance in those suddenly sharp eyes, the promise that he would return to her, that he wouldn’t let himself become lost in his mission.

 _My soul_.

            She closed her eyes as he disappeared from her view and tried to trust John as much as her love did. She took her phone out to text Shelby, then climbed in to the ambulance again, knowing no work would be done in the morgue at St. Bart’s that day.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The famed ambulance scene! What did you all think?


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!!  
> Let me know what you think!

            She sat at her desk, flipping her phone between her fingers the way Sherlock did, fidgeting with her eyes on the clock. Interns flittered in and out of her view, and she answered their questions automatically as three hours and twenty-five minutes came and passed.

            “He’s alright,” she muttered to herself, standing up to pace her office, her hand absently rubbing her belly, “he’s going to be alright, he’s going to come back to us. He promised. We’ll all be home tonight.” Her interns must have thought she had lost her mind, but Molly didn’t care as she continued her steady vigil. A vague part of her felt bad for not working, for virtually getting paid to do nothing but putter around her office, chewing her lip and talking to herself.

            Molly nearly screamed when her phone went off. She had been expecting a call or text from Sherlock telling her that everything was done now, that Culverton Smith had been apprehended, that John Watson was back in action, back to his right mindset. Instead, she saw a text from Shelby, the nurse from the hospital that had been helping her and Sherlock. The text sent chills down Molly’s spine:

_SH got injured._

_He’s alright now, ward 73._

Without thinking Molly grabbed her coat and ran out, texting Shelby back, asking if there was anyone with him. When she was assured there was only a police officer outside his door, Molly ran faster.

            How had he gotten injured?

            The bits and fragments of his plan that he’d told her would have ended with a confrontation between Faith Smith and her father, and Sherlock would get the confession he wanted. Confusion and panic filled her, and she urged the cabbie to drive faster to the hospital. “Aye, calm down a wee bit!” he told her in a thick accent, “what you want to go that hospital for?” he asked, “haven’t you seen the news?”

            Frowning, she reached forward to turn on the small telly, finding a news channel and gasped at the headlines that flashed through the screen. Through the relentless, horrific roar in her ears she managed to gather that there had been some sort of scuffle, that Sherlock had brandished a scalpel in his crazed state, and John Watson’s interference was the only reason Smith wasn’t dead. “I’ll put him in my favorite room,” Culverton said with a nasty smile, his crooked teeth giving Molly the chills, reminding her of monsters that lived in the darkest, coldest depths of hell.

            But it still didn’t explain how Sherlock had gotten injured, to the point that he’d needed to be hospitalized. If it had been for his deteriorating body, and she guessed he was at least malnourished with double kidney failure, but Shelby wouldn’t have said _injured_ , and he would not have hospitalized himself there…he would’ve chosen to go to St. Bart’s where she could be near him.

            Something wasn’t making sense, weighing heavily on her chest as the cabbie finally pulled up to the hospital entrance. She pushed past the reporters that were crawling over the entrance, the security guards at the doors keeping them outside. Shelby met her at the front desk, allowing Molly to go into the ICU ward without needing to sign up or show ID, thinking that Sherlock would prefer it that way.

            Shelby didn’t need prompting, telling Molly about the scuffle in the morgue, and how several orderlies had been needed to pull John Watson off of Sherlock. Molly stopped in her tracks in the hallway, grabbing Shelby’s arm, “what do you mean, ‘off of him’?”

            “Well,” Shelby said with her usual, gentle patience, the tone that always let a patient know they were in good, capable hands, “it would seem that Sherlock went a little…ballistic, out of control, and Dr. Watson had to restrain him.”

            “ _Restrain_ him?” Molly blinked, “what the fuck,” she breathed, not caring at the shock on Shelby’s face at Molly’s uncharacteristic language, “why—would someone need to pull Dr. Watson off Sherlock if he was restraining _Sherlock_?”

            Shelby began listing Sherlock’s injuries—the burst blood vessel in his left eye, the cut above it that required several stitches, a few broken ribs—all on top of the malnutrition, the havoc the drugs were wreaking on his system, and double kidney failure as Molly had suspected. “He—someone beat him up,” she murmured, looking at Shelby for answers.

Whatever the other woman saw in her expression had Shelby looking at her shoes, “yes,” she said softly.

            “Do me a favor Shelbs,” Molly murmured, standing outside his hospital room door, “let me know if Watson or Smith show up, I don’t—I don’t want to be here when they’re with him.”

            “Sure, anything you need,” Shelby touched her arm reassuringly, “I’ll text you.”

            She walked into the hospital room bathed in blue light and moaned at the sight of him, his eyes closed, his face gaunt and bruised, his eye swollen beneath the stitches on his brow. She couldn’t help the tears that streamed down her cheeks as she walked towards him, dropping her bag on the floor as her body refused to acknowledge anything but his existence in that lonely hospital bed. As if sensing her, he opened his eyes, surprising her when he cursed, “ _Fuck_! I was hoping you wouldn’t come,” he said, his voice a deep, garbled grumble.

            Molly didn’t respond, she couldn’t as she stood by his side, touching his hand with her fingertips as her eyes traced his bruises and wondered how many were hidden from her view by his hospital gown. The burst blood vessel in his eye broke her very soul as he looked at her, swallowing hard as if waiting for her reaction.

She wasn’t capable of speech in that moment, even her tears stopped as she moved to slip the hospital gown down over his chest. It was untied to give his doctors better access to his body if he was unconscious, and he silently watched her slip the gown down his chest. “He kicked you when you were on the floor,” she murmured, her eyes on the angry, red mark on his side, the center rapidly turning colors, the shape of a shoe clear. There was only one angle that could produce such a result, and she had worked as with the Yard long enough to know when a victim had been curled up on their side while getting kicked in the ribs.

            “Molly—”

            If he continued to talk after that, she didn’t hear him over the dull roar in her ears, her fingers feathering over the bruise before she put her palm against his chest, spreading her fingers the way he loved, feeling the strength of his heartbeat as it matched the EKG behind her. “Is it over?” she asked him quietly.

            He shook his head, his voice a croak, “not yet,” he told her, his eyes searching hers. Words lost their meaning and she couldn’t find any to speak as she leaned down, pressing kisses to his collarbone to hear his sigh, feeling him turn his head towards her, his breath warm against her ear. Words lodged themselves in her throat as she nuzzled his skin.

            _I love you, Sherlock._

            She left not long after that, kissing him slowly, filling herself with the texture of his lips, his tongue, the way his beard braded her skin with every stroke of his mouth over hers. There was a desperation in the way he’d kissed her, moaning and gasping his frustration at not being able to lift his head to deepen the kiss, sighing in satisfaction as she’d opened her mouth for him, letting him touch her tongue, taste her the way he wanted to. His fingers had found the elastic tie and he’d released her ponytail, his fingers rough and clumsy in her hair.

_Desperate._

But Shelby texted her, telling her that Watson was on his way up to the room, and she slipped out before she could see him. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to ruin Sherlock’s masterplan, but knew she was lying to herself.

            Molly felt mildly grateful as anger animated her for the rest of the day, the break from crippling worry and anxiety a nice change. Her body rejected the anger and she was forced to chew on antacid tablets all day, rubbing her stomach in soothing, apologetic circles as she tried to get work done in the lab. There was no use in going home, there was no use in staying at the hospital either but at least there were some distractions in the lab. She waited for her phone to go off like a ticking timebomb, unable to fathom what the next step in Sherlock’s brilliant plan was. But being locked together with a serial killer…well, she had her reasons to worry, didn’t she?

           


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

            She sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his hand between hers as she rested them in her lap, stroking his skin as tears quietly rolled down her cheeks. He was finally asleep, finally resting, curled up on his side around her. She played with his hair with her free hand, stroking his limp curls away from his face, brushing her fingers against his beard, occasionally bending down to kiss his exposed shoulder or collarbone.

            It was over. It was finally over.  

He’d told her he hadn’t been able to properly sleep, refused to take any medication that would help him to do so, wanting his body to start getting rid of the drugs in his system as fast as possible. Sherlock’s sheepish smile when he’d said that had made her heart flutter, taking comfort in the knowledge that no matter how hard he’d let himself fall, there had always been a part of him that kept control. She didn’t want to flatter herself and think that the bit of control that had kept him alive had anything to do with her. Molly was just happy he’d had a reason to cling on, to not lose himself the way everyone around them believed.

            They had talked quietly about recovery, agreeing that it was best for him to go through withdrawals under supervision, mostly because she was worried about the extent of the damage he’d done to himself. Sherlock had asked, with a gruff and quiet voice, that she stay with him a little bit because he couldn’t sleep otherwise. That he hadn’t slept in weeks because he’d been without her. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she’d murmured “of course” and had been sitting next to him ever since, letting him sleep through the detox.

            Of course, she hadn’t told him how she’d had to stop and throw up when Shelby had told her what had happened with him and Culverton Smith. She didn’t want him to know how she’d collapsed on her knees down the hall when Lestrade had told her that Smith had been strangling Sherlock, that his vitals had begun to crash by the time John Watson had kicked down the door. Molly didn’t think Sherlock needed to know about the confusion in poor Greg’s eyes as he’d helped her to a chair, pushing her head between her knees, gruffly telling her, “he’s alright Molly, all a part of his plan or something. You can talk to him now,” Greg had told her, his hand heavy between her shoulders.         

            She was convinced that Sherlock would never know, would never find out that she planned to go home after she left his side, lock herself in her flat and weep for days, weep until she could no longer produce tears, let all that terror wash away from her. She never wanted him to know how much she cursed the past few weeks, how much she cursed him for putting himself through hell, hating all of it so much that she almost wished she never met Sherlock Holmes. Now that it was done, now that he was alive and on the other side of his self-made hell, she could say that it would have been better for her to be tortured physically than to have to live through the past few weeks again.

            She hated him, she hated herself, she hated every damned thing around her, hated the universe and railed against the God she prayed to for putting so much on Sherlock’s shoulders, for depriving them all of a moments peace and comfort. Watching him sleep, his face twitching, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing involuntarily in pain and confusion as the drugs left his system, darkness crashed around Molly Hooper. She wanted to run away from it all, run away from having to watch him struggle with sobriety again, run away from watching him deal with the pain of his daily life until he could finally function again.

            The uncertainty of what he would be once he left the hospital worried her the most. He’d become such a different, loving, caring man, no longer the sociopath but someone capable of warmth that reached the universe beyond their home. Swiping away impatiently at her tears, she wiped her hand against her jeans before she continued stroking his hair, somehow not wanting to contaminate him with her tears. A logical part of her brain tried assuring her that the fact that he had fought for his life, had tried to cling on to some sense of sanity even as he played the out-of-control addict was hope for their future together.

            But this was her Sherlock, and there was no way she could predict his reaction.

            He woke up hours later, somehow Molly had ended up curled up on the bed next to him, his head tucked against her chest beneath her chin. She kissed his forehead, “I have to go,” she told him when she saw that he was awake, “Watson and Greg are on their way with Mycroft, they want to figure out what we can do for you, keeping you sober.”

            “Shifts?” he murmured, when she nodded, he glanced up at her with that horrendous eye, “make sure you take the night shifts.”

            She smiled for him, hoped it was a convincing one as she pressed a kiss over the cut on his eyebrow, “of course,” she told him, “will you be alright darling? I can try and stay overnight.”

            “When am I being released?”

            “Tomorrow,” she told him, “I’ll be the one to take you home, worked some magic on Mike and the staff here.”

            “Good,” he sighed, settling against her chest again, his breath warm.

            “I can spend tonight here if you want,” she murmured, “just ask.”

            She glanced down at him, her fingers in his hair as he refused to look up at her, “will you—please Molly, will you stay here tonight?”

            “Whatever you need,” she told him, kissing his forehead again, “but I’m going to go home for a bit, grab some overnight stuff, alright? I think Greg needs to question you anyway, and Watson…well.”

            Gently she lifted herself away from him, catching herself before she touched her stomach as she straightened up, Sherlock rolling himself on his back to watch her. “About John—”

            She shook her head, “don’t even try,” she told him, putting on her coat, running her fingers through her hair. Greg and Watson didn’t know she’d spend the past six hours with Sherlock, Shelby and another nurse having been recruited to warn her whenever they knew someone was coming to visit Sherlock. She managed to convince both the nurses it was mostly for security reasons that she needed their warning, neither of them guessing that they were helping her protect her sweetest secret.

Well, one of her sweetest secrets.

            “He thinks I killed his wife, Molly, I _did_ kill his wife,” Sherlock lifted his shoulders off the bed, reaching for her hand with his eyes gray and luminous.

            She shook her head, her hand trembling as she gripped his, “you didn’t kill Mary. Norbury killed Mary, she would’ve shot _you_ if Mary hadn’t _chosen_ to jump in front of you darling,” she shook her head when he tried to speak, watching the way he let his shoulders slam back against the bed, “no amount of excuses from you or from him are going to make this ok. None of this is alright.”

            With a slow kiss and a promise to come back to him, to spend the night with him, she closed the hospital room door behind her. Greg was leaning a shoulder against the wall just outside, his eyes grave and serious as he waited for Watson. “How’s he?” Greg asked.

            Molly shook her head, “he’s made a right mess of himself,” she murmured, “I’ve seen healthier bodies on a slab. I don’t know how he’s alive.”

            Shaking his head, Greg sighed, his eyes on the closed door, “was he planning this all along? Was this all just a plan?”  
            Laughing, Molly stuffed her hands in her pockets, bringing the bulky jacket in front of her to hide her gently growing belly from view. “This is Sherlock, who ever knows what he’s doing?” she asked, watching Mycroft come down the hallway, wearing a three-piece suit with his umbrella in hand. His eyes were on Molly, and she knew he’d guessed how many hours she’d spent with Sherlock without needing anyone to say anything. She was strangely comfortable with his knowledge of their relationship, but she brought her hands in front of her stomach, making the jacket bulge with her hands so he wouldn’t see what was hidden beneath.

            “Miss Hooper, Detective,” he nodded at them in way of greeting, “how is my little brother?”

            Molly gave him the briefest update, clenching her jaw as she watched Watson approaching them from behind, her words fluid even as anger boiled her veins, the piece of Sherlock she was carrying seeming to unfurl in defense of its planter. The four of them stood together, meticulously assigning times to spend with Sherlock, to help him with his recovery without letting him remain alone long enough to be tempted by drugs. She wanted to tell them that they had nothing to worry about, but she heard herself instead offer to take the night shift. She shrugged a nonchalant shoulder, Mycroft’s blue eyes on her, “you’ve got Rosie and God knows Greg you have enough to worry about,” she avoided everyone’s eyes, especially Mycroft’s, “I don’t mind taking the overnights with him.”

            The fifteen minutes they spent talking, she couldn’t look at John Watson’s eyes, couldn’t bring herself to even glance at him. And whenever she did, her eyes drifted to his bruised and bloodied knuckles, finding his shoes and wondering if there were traces of Sherlock’s blood on them, inanely thinking that there were probably fibers from Sherlock’s shirt there still. Mycroft and Greg slipped into Sherlock’s room, leaving her to gather her bag from the chair behind her, getting ready to leave. “Molly?” Watson called her name, “are you ok?”

            She wanted to walk away, wanted to press her lips over the words that threatened. But she was tired, tired of hiding words, hiding thoughts, hiding her feelings, hiding her deepest joy from the world. She couldn’t say what she wanted to Sherlock, couldn’t express her love and her thoughts, the secrets in her skin, at least she could be honest in this. So, she stopped and turned to face Watson, gesturing to his knuckles, “did that feel good?” she asked him.

            He blinked at her in confusion, “what?”

            “Or did you get your satisfaction from _kicking_ _him_ when he was on the ground? Funny thing being a pathologist, you can tell these things from a single glance,” she shook her head, “he’s your best friend, John. How could you?”

            “He’s—he’s—” John shook his head, “you know what he did.”

            Molly tilted her head, “I do. I know exactly what he did, and I know why he did it,” she straightened up, “and you broke his ribs for it. You know, he can’t see out of that eye? He won’t be able to see well out of it for a few days, at least. You slapped him or punched him first, _continued_ to hit him until he was on the ground, and then you _kicked him_ hard enough to break his _ribs_. One hit should’ve been enough to stop him if Smith was in danger.” she shook her head, “who are you John Watson?”

            “He was out of control!”

            “Was he?” she murmured, “I think so too, well, he is _now_ anyway because he’s already forgiven you, I think he never held anything against you in the first place. But me?” she laughed softly, “I don’t think I can forgive you so easily. You’ve _no idea_ how lucky you are to have someone like Sherlock Holmes in your life.”

            Trembling, she walked away without a backwards glance, not hearing anything that he might have said. Molly kept her promise to herself, going home and weeping until she could no longer breath, until she had nothing to cry about even as she packed a few things before heading back to the hospital. He was asleep when she got there, jerking awake when she entered the room, scooting his abused body to make room for her. She lay on her back, letting him settle his head against her chest and they fell asleep together, finally finding some peace together.

            Tomorrow waited for them, but at least for tonight, they were safe in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running a little behind on replies but I'll catch up, I promise! I read and appreciate each and every single comment!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! xx

            Sherlock was home, drinking his cup of tea and wondering if there was anything as satisfying as your first cup of tea after coming home from the hospital. The sensation was all too familiar as he sat across from John in his favorite armchair, the warmth of the roaring fire barely registering in his frantic senses, the deprivation of drugs leaving his body confused and muddled. But again, the sensation was all too familiar.

            He and John sat in uncomfortable silence, sipping quietly, trying to get a conversation going but it was impossible. Sherlock’s thoughts drifted to that morning as he stared at the wisps of steam rising from his tea. He’d woken up in the hospital bed, slightly startled when he realized he was curled up against Molly Hooper, her heartbeat beneath his cheek, her fingers in his hair as she held him. Glancing up, he hadn’t felt like hiding the smile that he would never let her see, feeling so much pleasure at waking up beside her once more. He had thought he’d dreamt of her slipping into his hospital bed the night before but apparently not. Sherlock should’ve known she would never forget or break a promise she made him.

            She’d woken up immediately, glancing down at him with alarm in her eyes, her fingertips touching the side of his face, her voice rough and familiar, “y’ok?” she asked.

            He’d managed to at least nod before ducking his eyes from her, settling back against her chest. Eventually the doctors had come in, doing their final checks before they were finally ready to release him. He’d signed a mountain of paperwork with Molly standing at his elbow, a solid comfort, Herculean strength somehow contained in her small body. She’d helped him get dressed after he’d shooed away the nurses who’d thought he would want their help instead. But he had been craving Molly’s touch more than he’d ever craved cocaine or heroin, his skin burning from want of her, starved for Molly’s simple contact.

            Patiently, lovingly she’d helped him get dressed, slipping the hospital gown off of him, helping him step into his boxer briefs. He’d said something about going commando, making her laugh softly in that knowing way as she’d pressed her lips to the center of his chest. Her touch was intimate but not sexual, triggering panic in his mind palace as he tried to understand it, as he stepped into his trousers, watching as she buttoned them for him with her kiss nestled against his throat. How was it possible to be touched by another human, another human who was your sexual partner and not some nurse or doctor, the touch and actions clinical and practical yet holding such…intimacy? Tenderness? Affection? What was the word he could use to describe what it felt like when she helped him button his shirt?

            Could he say that it was with tenderness, affection, intimacy that she’d taken him to his room once they’d gotten to Baker Street, her arm wrapped his waist to support him up the stairs, assuring Mrs. Hudson that she would call her if she needed help. She’d settled him into his own bed, somehow knowing the ride from the hospital had exhausted him, somehow knowing to get a wet washcloth to press against his forehead. Her touch had been gentle as she’d put the doctor recommended ointment on the cut on his forehead, telling him that she would leave in an hour, then John would come. Before he could even ask, she’d reminded him that she had all the night shifts, and she would be back later.

            “We have something to celebrate tonight, you know,” she’d smiled, her fingers stroking his hair as if she knew how much comfort he drew from that inexplicable touch.

            “Oh?” he’d asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.

            “Happy birthday Sherlock Holmes,” she’d pressed the sweetest kiss to his cheek, and he’d buried his face in the pillow.

            “Molly, if you show up tonight with cakes and balloons, I won’t be responsible for my less than enthusiastic reaction,” he’d said gruffly.

            “Oh, I’m all a quiver with fear,” she’d teased, kissing him again before she’d left.

            John Watson drew him out of his thoughts now, their conversation picking up speed and intensity with each passing moment as Sherlock finally began to understand the guilt that had settled into his friend’s shoulders, in his very bones it seemed. When his phone went off, the text from the Woman making its familiar sound, he watched John’s reaction, watched his friends insistence that Sherlock wasn’t capable of understanding the value of a romantic relationship, of having a woman in his life who made him want to be a better man, his thoughts momentarily drifting away at the thought of taking Molly away for a weekend somewhere, maybe not High Wycombe but somewhere flowery and beautiful, quiet so he could lose himself in Molly. There was a sense of guilt at John’s ignorance of Sherlock’s true situation, of his best friend’s lack of knowledge that Sherlock did have a woman like that in his life, a woman that gave him the ability to want to be better than he was, better than who he had been.

            And he knew it was Molly that allowed him to understand why John stared at an empty spot by the window, speaking directly to Mary, admitting to having cheated on her, having betrayed her trust by thought, by seemingly innocent deeds. It was Molly in his veins that gave him the comprehension of the guilt John felt in that moment, and it was Molly in his bones that helped him stand up and offer John Watson his arms, hugging his best friend, letting him grieve on his shoulder the way Molly had done for him, so many times.

            He got a text from Molly not long after that, John having snuck into the restroom to wash his face of his tears while Sherlock put on his Belstaff. He grinned down at the simple words from her, her loveliness, her bubbliness evident even in the way she texted him:

_Hiiii! We’re going for cake?_

_What happened to the dire threat?_

_Can’t wait to see you! xx_

He responded with an emoji he knew would make her laugh then deleted the texts like he always did, thoughts about the Woman and texting bombarding him as he waited for John, straightening the collar of his coat. Those rare times he responded to the Woman had become a nagging, faceless guilt, each word he managed to return to her a small agony. He’d realized it was guilt, realized it was the same guilty conscience that kept him from kissing or touching Molly when he was high. Every word the Woman got from her were filled with Molly, and he wondered if Molly could feel the added desperation in his kisses after those texts.

            But after a while he’d realized it was just texting, that the guilt associated wasn’t that he was texting someone else, it was the secrets that he kept from his Molly, that he snuck away to text the Woman. In a moment of clarity, he’d realized that the secrecy was the problem, not the texts. So, one night in her flat, as she’d been running around her kitchen cooking dinner for them, he’d stopped her and told her about the texting. She’d looked at him like he was crazy, blinking up at him with a confused frown, “so?” she’d asked then rolled her eyes, “darling,” but she had just shaken her head, “thank you for telling me. I trust you Sherlock, there’s no harm so stop frowning,” she’d kissed him between the eyes and that had been that.

            When they got to the cake place, he had to lock his muscles down to keep himself from running to her and sweeping her into his arms dramatically. She was sitting at the spindle legged round table, wearing one of her massive, oversized cardigans over a dress, her hair in a sleek ponytail as she waved them over. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled as he sat down.

            “It’s your birthday!” she insisted, her eyes boring into his, touching the very essence of who he was, “we _have_ to celebrate!”

            “I supposed a sugar rush is better than nothing,” he murmured, and she shot him a deadly glare, “kidding! _Kidding_ , you two need to relax!”

            Molly narrowed her eyes, leaning forwards, her legs crossed, and her knees pressed against his, “what’s with the hat?”

            He took her glass of water, drinking from it, “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he shrugged, “and Mary would’ve wanted me to wear it.”

            She touched her foot with his under the table, the waitress coming over a little later to take their drink order. Everyone ordered coffee and he frowned when she asked for more water, “why aren’t you having coffee?”

            “I didn’t realize I needed to have my orders approved by you,” she rolled her eyes, taking back her glass and drinking deliberately from it. Lestrade joined them soon after that and Sherlock finally let himself celebrate his birthday, surrounded by his best friends and his…his Molly. With the addition of Lestrade she was forced to scoot her chair closer to him, and he let his thigh rest against hers, watching her laugh, her fingers discretely brushing his skin as they let the hours flow, filled with a sinfully decadent chocolate cake Molly had ordered for him. They urged him to blow out the single pink candle after making a wish. He rolled his eyes at the absurd notion, knowing he would never tell Molly that he wished for nothing but her before blowing it out.

            He also wished he could eat the cake from her lips but settled for the way she fed him a small chunk from her fingers, licking her own fingers clean after he’d taken it from her fingertips with his tongue. He felt like purring at the intimate contact, at the absurdity of his own thoughts thinking that she had licked him in far more secret places, so why was he watching her lick her fingers clean after feeding him cake like his life depended on the swipe of her pink tongue?

            “Will you two be alright tonight, Molly?” John asked as they stood up to leave several hours later.

            “Yes,” she smiled at John, the tension between them still present but less tangible now, he only saw it in the way she clenched her jaw, “we’ll be fine,” she assured him, even hugging John Watson.

            “Cab or walk?” she asked Sherlock, waving at Lestrade and John as they climbed into Lestrade’s car, driving away.

            “Walk,” he told her, craving the fresh air, the sanity of being in his own skin without screaming demons, without feeling like he was a hair trigger away from destruction. He thought about his walk with Faith Smith, with the imaginary woman that had brought him information, a result of his thoughts, of the drugs that had brought her to life and helped him navigate his way to Culverton Smith.

            He shivered at the name, his own weak voice, begging for the ease of death making him want to press his hands against his ears and not hear his own pleading. Somehow, Molly knew, and she slipped her arm through his, holding his hand as they walked together, not saying anything as he filled his senses with the city around him and the woman that walked beside him. The cold air in his lungs felt like ecstasy, the way the air swirled around his skin.

            There was that profound silence between them again as they walked towards Baker Street, just another couple in the streets, just another pair of lovers holding hands as they strolled through the city. When he closed the doors into the flat, she stood in the middle of the room and he thought he saw panic flare as she realized what he wanted from her, what he intended as he wrapped his arms around her waist to draw her against him.

He bent down to nuzzle her throat, “I need you,” he admitted against her skin, hiding his face from her as he confessed his secrets to her, “I need you Molly Hooper,” he repeated, “I need you.”

She smiled, running her hands through his hair, humming softly in his ear, “you have me darling,” she told him, “you’ve always had me, whether I like it or not.”

Sherlock kissed his Molly slowly, the moan she elicited from him a familiar surrender now as he held her against him, as he tasted her and memorized the texture of her. He slipped the cardigan from her shoulders, his fingers touching her collarbone, grateful for the low neckline of the dress. He was prepared to rip the small buttons off if he needed to, but she distracted him by cupping him through his trousers, whispering his name. He pushed her back in his armchair, kneeling between her thighs as he kissed her, cupping her throat in his hands as she breathed into his mouth.

Sherlock pulled away breathlessly, gasping for air as he slipped his hands beneath her dress, drawing it up around her waist as he kissed a trail from her lips to her chin, her throat, smiling as her head fell back when he gently bit her collarbone. His fingertips traced the lace trim of her panties, grinning viciously when she jumped at his touch, when he ran his fingertips over her swollen, silken flesh, coating his fingers with her desire. “I need to taste you,” he told her in a daze, “oh Molly, you turn me into a cannibal, wanting to eat you.”

She leaned back, sighing his name, her eyes fluttering shut as he kissed the inside of her thigh, dragging his open mouth to the very center of her, licking her, tasting her slowly, memorizing the way she felt around his tongue. Molly gasped and gripped his hair in her fists, holding herself against his mouth as she orgasmed, screaming his name as she arched into him. With her taste still on his tongue, he stood up, holding his hand out for her, leading her to his bedroom.

Kneeling between her legs on his bed, he held himself above her, kissing her slowly as her fingers drifted beneath his t-shirt, lifting it up and over his head. Her impatient hands shucked down his pants just enough to release his erection, touching him so gently, so sweetly that he nearly came in her hand, right then and there. He frowned at her reluctance to let him take off her dress, and he settled for unbuttoning the top, forgetting the universe as he tasted her breasts, sucking her nipples even as his fumbled in the bedside drawer for a condom.

            When Sherlock finally slipped inside his Molly, _his_ woman, they both groaned, the muscles in his arms trembling as he tried not to smother her with his weight. But God she felt exquisite, so swollen, so much softer than he remembered as she cradled his hips with hers, her body more luscious as he took her, stroke after stroke of that warmth, that liquid silk that lived in his dreams. He gasped her name when his orgasm crawled up his spine and rendered him immobile, his face against her throat as he pumped himself inside her, his scream against her skin as she took him, soothing her hands down his back as he bucked wildly inside her.

            He collapsed beside her on the bed, gasping for air as his body tried to settle into the heavy contentedness of post-orgasm bliss, getting rid of the condom as fast as he could. But when she sat up, he frowned, “what’s wrong?” he asked, watching her stand up without facing him.

            “Nothing darling,” she murmured, tiptoeing towards the bathroom, “I’ll be right back.”

            He had been carried away to sleep by the time she returned to him, her quiet tears wetting his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, a Sherlock POV! I'm always nervous writing him so be kind!


	24. Chapter 24

            Molly sat on the edge of the sink the next morning, watching Sherlock come out of the shower, dripping wet and not bothering to put on a towel or anything else as he stood in front of the mirror. He glanced at her playfully, “maybe I should grow it out,” he told her, stroking his jaw, turning his face this way and that in the bathroom mirror, “cultivate a roguish, pirate-y look.”

            She laughed, opening her legs slightly beneath the robes she’d commandeered, showing him the redness against her thighs from where his beard had abraded her skin, “and give me beard burns? No thank you,” she grinned.

            “Wait, let me see, I didn’t get a good look,” he said, making her laugh again, rolling his eyes as she crossed her legs. She watched the way he methodically put on shaving cream and began to shave that ginger beard. There were still bruises on his torso, the angry mark on the side of his ribs glaring against his pale skin. But his eyes looked clear, the burst blood vessel looking less terrifying, and she wondered if he’d started to see out of it.

            She was grateful she’d woken up hours before him to throw up, as it was her daily routine now. She didn’t want him to figure out what was going on, didn’t want him to make deductions about her the way he had with Mary. There was something in Molly that made her want to take dictate the way he found out her news, as if gaining that bit of control over her chaotic world would give her peace. Watching him shave, their conversation light and meaningless, she knew they weren’t out of danger, knew that there was still a chance he wouldn’t be able to continue with this level of cheeriness, this level of contentment.

            But for that moment, for those hours, all was well in Sherlock’s world. Her hand fluttered over her stomach as she thought about her news, knew that it would bring everything crashing down around him, would bring that tiny bit of progress to a halt. A nagging voice in the back of her mind tried telling her that it was too early to tell him anyway, that she should make it out of the first trimester safely before burdening him with her secret, with _their_ secret.

            How had he not figured it out though, she thought as she laughed at something he was saying to her, her thoughts and emotions as scattered and numerous as the freckles that marked his shoulders and chest. Even through his drug use, he was brilliant enough to put two and two together. How had he not caught the shift in her body weight? Her moods? Had he heard her in the bathroom that morning and simply assumed she’d eaten too much cake the night before? He knew how much she loved coffee and tea, why wasn’t he questioning her sudden abstinence from it? When he’d touched her stomach in the ambulance, she’d become convinced that he knew, that at least some part of him knew.

            “What’s on your mind?” he asked her, and too late she realized she’d gotten quiet, “there must be a million things I’m sure, but there’s something that’s been calling your attention too often these lately, clouding your time with me.”

            She blinked at him, at his intuition, as she shook her head, “nothing in particular,” she murmured.

            “Nothing you want to share with me,” he clarified with raised brows, half of his face still covered in white foam while the other half was scraped by the straight razor he used, revealing the smooth, beautiful skin of his jaw.

            “Nothing worth sharing right now,” she murmured, “I promise to tell you when the time is right.”

            He made a humming sound and went back to shaving his beard off meticulously. She admired the steadiness of his hand, knowing that most men would be terrified of using a blunt blade so close to their own throat, probably having watched Sweeny Todd one too many times. But he did with it with a confidence, an arrogance that warmed her heart, that touched that bit of her that she carried with her now. “Well,” he said, “I have something to tell you, something I realized yesterday when I was talking to John.”

            Sherlock moved to stand between her legs, and she immediately wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles against his bare bottom, his skin smooth and wet against her, “oh?” she asked as he carefully put the blade away, putting his hands on either side of her on the sink, leaning into her.

            “You, Molly Hooper, make me the man I want to be,” he murmured, “you give me the desire to want things I never thought I’d want, think things I never thought I was capable of. You make me a better man.”

            Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his neck as he pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes fluttering shut, his golden eyelashes fanning across his cheeks. They were so incredibly long and beautiful, she sometimes thought about putting mascara on them, just to see how much more stunning he could become. His words made her sigh his name, made her want to tell him that that’s what love did but too soon…too much, too soon. “And John made you realize this?”

            “Yes,” he said quietly, “he also thinks I should spend weekends in High Wycombe with…well, he said the Woman but I was thinking of _my_ woman.”

            Chuckling, she raised her eyebrow at him, “why High Wycombe?”

            “No clue,” he answered with a laugh.

            “Well, take me somewhere by the ocean or by the sea,” she murmured, “I’d prefer that than High Wycombe.”

            “Mmm, have you ever been to Malta?” he murmured, when she shook her head, “ah, I have to take you there soon.”

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you guys deserve a bit of fluff! Chapter 25 is scheduled for tomorrow :)


	25. Chapter 25

            The next few days passed by without much change, without much excitement around Baker Street or the lives of the occupants. Molly had practically moved in with Sherlock, but no one questioned it, thinking that it was just to keep him from using again. They played their parts well, that of two friends supporting each other through difficult times, making everybody believe that she slept in John’s old room instead of in Sherlock’s arm every night. She always woke up before him, diving for the toilet every morning and slipping back into bed after her stomach had settled. Molly watched the light from his bedroom window play across his features, thinking he was inhumanly beautiful, perfect in every way, perfect in his imperfections, grinning when those eyes finally opened with a sleepy smile.

            They’d make each other breakfast, and she had finally convinced him that she had given up coffee just to destroy her tolerance for caffeine. She hated lying to him, but some part of her assured that she’d lied enough for him that this temporary lie didn’t count.

When he decided to take clients two days after he was home from the hospital, she happily decided to be his assistant again, going along with him on cases when John couldn’t and when work, and her body, allowed her to.

            She was running out of time and she knew she had to tell him soon. She was lucky her body hid her secrets well, her doctor assuring her that some women didn’t start to show until the second trimester. She looked at her calendar on her desk at work that morning, the date circled in red marker, and she’d sworn to herself that she would tell him today, no matter what. It wasn’t fair to keep the secret any longer, inhuman to keep his joy from him, even if he didn’t necessarily want it at this point.

            When her phone rang, she grabbed it on the first ring, “yes Sherlock, I’m getting ready to head home,” she said as way of greeting.

            “I found it,” he said, his voice excited, “I found the note Faith Smith gave me, Molly! She was _real_!”

            “What,” she breathed, “where was it?”  
            “It must’ve fallen behind the end table,” he was speaking quickly, “are you coming home?”

            “Twenty minutes,” she promised, stuffing all her paperwork, all her things in her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Grabbing her coat she ran out of the building, rushing home to her Sherlock, her mind swirling with one absurd thought after another as she tried to think about the origins of that note, that note that they’d been convinced had been delivered by a phantom, drug induced lady. When she got to Baker Street, she frowned when she saw all the lights were off, “Sherlock?” she called out.

            “Here,” his tone was flat and without inflection, coming from the kitchen. He was standing by the bare bulb, holding up a piece of paper and shining a torch on it, frowning at at the piece of paper so intensely that she was sure it would have caught fire if he was an immortal being.

            “What did you find?” she asked, frowning as she stood behind him, gripping his hips, her chin on his shoulder as she looked at the piece of paper. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice on her as she saw the words illuminated by the white light, gasping, “it—can’t be him. Sherlock!”

            “No, it can’t,” he murmured, “he’s dead,” he assured her, “but who _is_ sending these? Who was Faith Smith? Not knowing is... _unsettling_. There’s danger coming, there’s something coming, and I can’t _see_ it.”

            She tried to make her voice reassuring, “this is the game, Sherlock, where’s your game face?”

            But he shook his head, switching off the torch and turned on the lights in the kitchen, “whatever’s coming, it’s not coming for me. It’s gunning for those around me, and I can’t handle that.”

            Blinking at him, she sat heavily on the stool at the kitchen, watching as he paced back and forth, worry evident in his every movement, every muscle in his body holding tension. “You’ll figure it out darling, you always do,” she told him, her words sounding weak even to her, “you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

            He stopped directly in front of her, “exactly. And the fact that I’ve been blindsided should make you worried.

            “You’re not blindsided,” she told him, “you’ll figure it out one way or another, you’ll protect us. You always do.”

            Sherlock’s eyes suddenly glanced behind her then flashed back to her, “it’s February 1st Molly, you have something to tell me,” at her confusion he explained, “did you really think I would miss those innumerous red circles on your calendar? Today’s the day you swore to yourself you’d tell me whatever secret you’ve been keeping from me. Come on then, out with it.”

            Molly stared at him, blinking in stunned silence, slightly alarmed that she hadn’t thought he would figure out the significance of the date. He hadn’t brought up the secret he saw in her eyes since that morning in the bathroom, had respected her wishes, trusted her to keep her counsel until it was time to tell him. “Maybe now isn’t the time?” she said in a small voice.

            He shook his head stubbornly, “you need to tell me, now. Right now,” his eyes were burning with intensity, “whatever’s coming, I need to be ready for it and if you’re keeping secrets from me, I won’t be able to do that.”

            “I—I wanted this to be special,” she said quietly, gathering all her strength, “I wanted to tell you when we weren’t—when we weren’t up to our eyes in danger and chaos and intrigue. When you were Sherlock, just—just my Sherlock, not the great detective, not the genius. I wanted to tell you when you were just—just you and I was just me,” she rubbed her tired eyes, suddenly feeling heavy and hopeless, “I’m pregnant, Sherlock. Nearly 14 weeks,” she murmured, looking down at the kitchen counter instead of at his eyes.

            “That’s why you haven’t let me see you naked,” he murmured after a few moments of silence, endless, unfamiliar silence between them, “that’s why you’ve been wearing those hideous sweaters. _God_! That’s why you haven’t been drinking coffee… _that’s_ why you feel different. How could I be so blind?” his voice was incredulous, the deep baritone that caressed her senses now a growl of frustration, of an understanding beyond his ability to actually comprehend what he was being told. “How could I not see it?” he didn’t let her answer, “but I did, didn’t I? Ohhh,” he let out a breath, “in the ambulance, _fuck_! I must’ve—I must’ve felt it, must’ve figured it out but I was too drugged up to keep the information long enough!” his voice was a roar now, “how could you not tell me?”

            Anger bubbled inside her and she finally looked at him, his face red and twisted, his eyes somehow reminding her of a dragon, the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing as he leaned across the counter towards, “how could I tell you?” she asked, her voice quiet, “when could I have told you, Sherlock? When you came over to tell me about Mary’s message? When you told me you were planning on deliberately poisoning yourself to save John? Or when you were so high you couldn’t keep yourself upright? Or should I have told you after your best friend beat you and broke your ribs? Or after you were nearly _murdered_ by one of the most prolific serial killers in world history? Tell me,” her voice quivered, “when was I meant tell you? When could you have handled it?”

            He clenched his jaw, looking at her with such contempt that ice flowed in her veins.

_My soul._

Her fears had come to life, had come to light, and she had finally lost Sherlock. She lost her home. Her soul.

“We were using condoms, we started using protection,” his voice was a growl, “this—wasn’t meant to _happen_.”

            She laughed, “basic biology, Sherlock. I was pregnant when you started using condoms,” she rubbed her eyes, “look, its—its happened. There’s nothing you can do or say to—to make me give up this baby,” she took a deep breath, pressing on, “if you don’t—want to be part of their life, that’s—that’s fine. But don’t expect me to give it up.”

            “I wasn’t even going to _suggest_ you _give it up_!” his voice was hiss, his body huge and overwhelming in his anger.

            “I just wanted it out there,” she murmured, her hand freely and protectively rubbing over her stomach, “this isn’t how I wanted to tell you, this isn’t—how I wanted you to find out.”

            “What, were you imagining a world where I would fall on my knees in gratitude that you’re _pregnant_? That you’ve hidden this from me fourteen _weeks_? Did you think I would fall in love with you once you became pregnant? That if you waited long enough, that if you _nursed_ me back to health I would fall in love with you?” he shook his head, “I don’t love you Molly, I never have and never will. Whatever little world we lived in is a lunatic fantasy in cloud coocoo land. Fairytales belong in _books_ ,” he scoffed, “did you _really_ think I would suddenly start weeping and telling you I loved you and we’d go skipping merrily on into the sunset? Move to the countryside and live happily ever after?”

            She stood up, her decision made and faced him as calmly as she could, “no,” she said softly, “I just thought you’d feel human.”

            Molly went to his bedroom without a backwards glance, barely registering him as he hovered at her elbow, as if he wanted to say something but stood silently by as she packed up her things, murmuring “excuse me” when she needed to pass him by to get her things from the bathroom.

            _My soul_

            _How is this us?_

_This isn’t us._

She left him standing at the top of the stairs, closing the door gently but firmly behind her, the rain washing away her tears as she went to her flat. She was no longer at home anywhere, curling up on the sofa without turning on any lights, her arms wrapped around her middle, thinking of their child…her child.

_Goodbye my home. My soul._

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....ta da?


	26. Chapter 26

            Out of habit, out of sheer muscle memory, Molly answered the call from Sherlock after the first ring, “Hello Sherlock,” she said, reverting to that muscle memory again as she put down the bone saw, pushing her goggles back.

            “Are you at the lab?” he asked.

            “Yes,” she answered, “what is it?”  
            It had been days, weeks now since she’d walked out of his life for good, since she’d carried herself and her baby away from their home, deciding it was better for both of them to find their home elsewhere. She had neither reached out to him nor he for her, and she had forced herself to accept her new reality without with no backwards glance, no regrets.

            Instead, Molly had spent the past several days reveling in the life that blossomed in her womb, that grew and flourished, that fed her with renewed vigor and a purpose in life. Sixteen weeks now and she thought she could feel the fledgling, new life move within her, exploring its home for the next several months, reminding her that it was there, that she wasn’t alone.

            It had been as if telling Sherlock had released some sort of mechanism within her, somehow made the pregnancy real, the possibility of her own child cemented as she’d told its father of its existence. She looked in the mirror every morning and tracked her growth, watched the way her body shifted and moved, preparing itself for motherhood, preparing her for the life that grew within her.

            The emptiness of her bed, the coldness of her sheets, the empty vastness of her bedroom, of her flat was somehow more bearable as she thought that she wasn’t alone anymore, not really. And the tears she shed for Sherlock…she counted them as wasted, unworthy. But she cried for him anyway, ached for his voice, for his touch, for a taste of his skin, an inhale of his scent.

            But Molly never carried those thoughts with her in the daylight, forcing him into the darkest hours of the night instead, and relished her days in the sun with vigor, often letting her hand cradle her womb while working, getting into the habit of speaking to her child out loud, even if it wouldn’t hear her voice quite yet.

            “I need a favor,” Sherlock was saying, “you can think of this as a game, if you wish.”

            “Christ,” she rubbed her forehead, sitting down heavily on the stool in front of her microscope, “what is it?” she demanded impatiently, her voice clipped and her tone unwelcoming, “I haven’t got all day.”

            “Say you want to put someone in the hospital, in theory only, but there was no body to be placed in the hospital, how would you go about faking records?” he asked conversationally.

            She frowned, “is this someone real?” she asked.

            “For argument’s sake, let’s say Mycroft,” he murmured, and she thought she heard the call of seagulls in the background.

            “Sherlock, what’s going on—” but she stopped herself before she could finish the question, “never mind, I don’t care,” she took a deep breath, “Well, first you’d have to hack into the hospital records, create a patient file with whatever injuries you’d need with Mycroft’s physical description to match. But you don’t have a _body_ in the hospital, so you’d look for places that use this new technology for hospital staff that automatically updates itself with every new shift. You could, theoretically, rig the charts to update themselves with every shift so that the new shift will think that the old shift has administered medications, IV’s etcetera, without anyone actually seeing the patient.”

            “What hospitals use this technology?” he asked.

            “Our Lady of Mercy in Chelsea is the only one in London,” she answered, not letting herself become curious as to the line of questioning, “Bart’s has been dragging its feet in digitizing everything,”

            “Thanks Molly!” he said and hug up without another word, and she thought that she had at least gotten that hasty thank you from him.

            She stared at her phone with a frown, trying to decipher what she had just told him. It had been exactly six days since they’d spoken last, and this was how he made contact? Six days and she hadn’t even gone anywhere near Baker Street, hadn’t even spoken with John or Mrs. Hudson, had cut off all her contact with the detective and his world. And as she stared at the phone, she convinced herself that it was all for the best, that the more she distanced herself from him and his world, the happier she would be.

            It was incredibly unfair to her child, she knew that, and rubbed her swollen belly with a consoling hand, apologizing silently, telepathically to the bit of Sherlock growing inside her. She had dreamed of the baby growing up at Sherlock’s feet, learning from him, drawing out his stubborn love, making Sherlock smile as he ran around the park with them or read them incredibly dull science texts that intrigued them instead of boring them to tears. She had wanted to see him on the floor, on his back, laughing as he taught their baby to crawl, as he playfully wrestled with them on the floor, stopping to grin up at her when he let their child pin him down.

            But that was fantasy. What had he called it? Cloud coocoo land, and it belonged in those fairy tales he’d scoffed at.        

            So, she stood up, squared her shoulders visibly and carried on working, knowing that she would have a good cry when she got home.

 

* * *

 

            She didn’t hear from Sherlock again for another two days, two days she told herself were spent in blissful silence from anything associated with Baker Street. Except her baby, and she smiled even now as she felt the tiny life inside her flittering around, like her lunch was doing a happy dance. How it was doing a happy dance after her hellish day, she didn’t quite know. But she just wanted a hot cup of chamomile tea with enough lemon to make her toes curl. She wanted that warmth, that comfort, and the mindlessness of crap telly to end her day.

            And God, what a day it had been.

            From waking up at 3am from a nightmare, crying in her sleep for Sherlock, begging him to come back to her, to throwing up as was her morning routine, to having one of the newest interns throw up on her brand-new shoes because he hadn’t been able to handle the sight of a person’s stomach contents. She’d gotten a new case from the Yard, the diagnoses baffling her as she searched for clues everywhere she could think of pathological traces of the method of murder. Grigson, the detective in charge, hounded her every five minutes it seemed, demanding she give him answers that just weren’t there.

            Frustrated, hormonal, and angry, with the dream she’d had of Sherlock swirling in her mind, she’d told her staff she was going home early because if she had stayed at Bart’s a single moment longer, someone would have died by her hand.

            So when her phone rang, she wasn’t in the best of moods, especially when she saw it was Sherlock. The muscles in her arms and fingers twitched to answer the phone but she refused, continuing to methodically cut the lemon into slivers, sighing in relief when the phone went silent.

She cursed viciously when it rang again, answering it after several rings this time, “Hello Sherlock,” she couldn’t keep the exasperation from coloring her tone, crossing her arm over her stomach as if to protect their child from the fight they were about to have, “is this urgent because I’m not having a good day.”

            “Molly, I want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why,” he said by way of greeting, his tone rapid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'alls responses to 25 were staggering and you have no idea how much they mean to me. I promise to respond to you as much as I can!! And because I'm such a lovely person, there's a possibility I'll be doing daily updates. We'll see!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank me later for the fast update....enjoy! xx

            “Oh God,” she groaned, “is this one of your stupid games?” she demanded, exhaustion underlining her every word, impatience growing. She was so tired of being his lab rat, of being his experiment, constantly injected by feelings and watched for her reaction. She wanted to hang up on him, wanted to continue making her cup of tea and spending the rest of her day pretending he didn’t matter to her anymore.

            _My soul_.

            “No,” he said haltingly, his voice more soothing than she wanted it to be, “it’s not a game, I need you to—help me.”

            “I’m not at the lab,” she told him but he interrupted her, something in his tone changing.

            “It’s not about that,” he said.

            “Well, quickly then,” she urged, her fingers itching to throw something at the wall when he didn’t say anything, when he stayed silent on the line, “Sherlock! What is it, what do you want,” she nearly yelled. Wanting to ask if he wanted her life now too, if he wanted her every peaceful moment, every peaceful heartbeat to be taken from her.

            “Molly please, without asking why, just say these words for me,” there was that inexplicable shift in his tone again.

            “What words?” she laughed at the absurdity of the moment, the absurdity of the conversation they were having. Another game, another stupid game…

            “I love you,” he instructed.

            Molly nearly hung up on him, nearly pressed the button that would end their phone call. But something latched on to her anger, forced her to voice her broken heart, her hurt feelings, “leave me alone,” she said instead, needing him to understand that she was human too, that she felt and ached. Tears stung her eyes, those three little words, those insignificant little words that she refused to every say in his presence.

            “Molly no! Please no! Don’t hang up! Do _not_ hang up!” he yelled, panic replacing the bored tone he’d had up until that moment.

            “Why are you doing this to me?” she moaned, “why are you making fun of me?” she fought the tears as best she could but they flowed, bleeding from her very soul and into her voice. She’d woken up weeping that morning because she’d dreamt that he was lying beside her in bed, in _their_ bed, tucked against her from behind, his big hand and long fingers protectively cupping her womb, touching their child through her skin as they slept. She’d been smiling, truly smiling, as they lay skin to skin, flesh to flesh, nothing between them as he warmed her with his body.

She had been jarred by reality, the emptiness of it all, the futility of living without him.

            But she had made a vow when she’d walked out of Baker street, out of his life, away from her home, her soul…had sworn to herself that she would never, ever be the first to say I love you. That if the ground shifted beneath their feet and the sun rose from the west, and Sherlock was ever back in her life, he would _never_ hear her confession of love or her feelings first. It was her resolve, her final bit of control, not to tell him she loved him even though she breathed it with every word, with every gesture when she was with him.

            “Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me,” his voice was calm now, that strange element starting to rub her nerves, “Molly—” he said in a tone that she had never heard from him before, “this is for a case,” he articulated, “it’s a sort of experiment.”

            He broke her heart, tore her soul, “I’m not an _experiment_ , Sherlock.”

            “No, I know you’re not an experiment, you’re my friend. We’re friends,” he insisted, and she could practically see him in her mind’s eye, dancing where he stood with that nervous, kinetic energy, his anxiety becoming more evident with every syllable he spoke.

Friends?

            _Something’s wrong_.

            “But please, say those words for me,” he demanded.

            She could no longer fight the tears, could no longer use her rage, her anger to hide her broken heart, seeing him in her bed, in her life every time she blinked, felt his breath against her cheek with every second that passed her by, that slipped away from her.

            _Friends_.

            “Don’t do this,” she begged him, “just—just _don’t it_.”

            “It’s very important,” he said, “can’t say why, but I promise you it is.”

_This is important, I may not be able to articulate why, but I promise you it is._

            _This isn’t me._

“I can’t say that,” she shook her head, “I can’t say that to you…”

            “Course you can! Why can’t you!” he laughed, and she saw the forced smile, saw the veins in his throat pulsing, the lines of strain marking his face even as she heard his smile in his voice.

            “You know why,” she breathed, her hand rubbing her belly.

            “No, I don’t know why,” he growled.

            _Friends_.

            _This isn’t me._

            “Of course you do,” she said impatiently, remembering the way they’d held each other on all those secret nights, all those heartbeats they’d shared, all those sighs and moans, all those seconds together…all those lifetimes they lived through, the galaxies they explored together, their secret universe. He knew why, he had to know why…it was in the way she touched him, the way she looked at him, the way she lived for him, throwing all that she was at his feet. Even when she hated him, even when she wanted to erase his very existence from her memories, from her heart, her soul, like she did now…

            _My soul…_

_My soul…._

_Don’t do this..._

            “Please, just say it,” his voice was flat now, and she wondered if he was thinking about their truth. About the fact that he hid the _words_ from her, from himself but his body betrayed him in the way he could never quite not touch her, in the way he never resisted the temptation to kiss the back of her neck when they were alone in the lab together, the way he always sat next to her when they were in public together and created the most idiotic excuses to touch her.

            “I can’t, not to you,” she breathed, remembering the way he’d looked in the church, when they’d talked about their baby’s future, when they’d talked about getting their child baptized. The hope in his eyes, the joy at the prospect of fatherhood, of creating a life together…

            _My soul_.

“Why,” he demanded, and she wondered if he was remembering that fateful afternoon he’d rushed her to the doctor’s office, when she’d found out that her heavy period wasn’t a period at all but their baby…the way he’d hugged her against his chest, the way he’d cupped her face in his big palms and told her that they would try again, spouting off statistics about first trimesters and miscarriages in an attempt to comfort her. The doctor had given them time to mourn privately for what they hadn’t even known they’d had, and she’d cried softly against his chest, tucked against him as she’d sat in his lap.      

            _Friends_.

            _This isn’t me_.

            “Because it’s _true_ , Sherlock” she groaned, “it’s always been true.” In every breath, in every sigh, in every glance, in every molecule and fiber of her being, it was her truth. It was the truth she carried in her womb, the truth that was growing and making her stomach flutter, as if hearing its father’s voice was animating it.

            “If it’s true, say it anyway,” he said in a flat voice.

            She laughed at the absurdity of the thought, thinking about the life that was furtively celebrating the very sound of Sherlock’s voice, “you bastard,” she shook her head.

            “Say it anyway,” he demanded.

            _Friends._

_This isn’t me_.

            “You say it,” she forced herself to stand up straighter, “go on, you say it first.” Did he remember how he’d become an expert on ovulation? Studying up and retaining everything he could about pregnancies and babies, about conception and the risks of conception after they’d miscarried? Did he remember that he’d demanded that she refer to it as _their_ baby, _their_ pregnancy _their miscarriage?_ How he’d lectured her doctor about treating the miscarriage as their loss, nearly biting the doctor’s head off when she spoke of the loss as the failure of Molly’s biology?

            “What?” he breathed over the line, sounding astonished, flabbergasted at her response. Maybe he was remembering the morning she’d woken up to find him sitting at her desk in her flat, having just calculated what their child would like, going by the balances of probability of who’s what their baby would inherit. Did he remember that he’d assured her their child would have her brown eyes and his black hair? Did he remember that he’d predicted their baby would be tall?

            “Say it,” she murmured, “Say it like you mean it,” she wanted to beg.

            The line went quiet, and she thought she could hear his breathing over the line, “I—” he paused and she closed her eyes, wanting to absorb the sensation, wanting to memorize and forever tattoo on her soul what those words sounded like in that baritone that lived in her dreams, “I love you,” he said the words as if someone had a gun to his head, forcing the words out of him, “I love you,” he breathed a second time and she couldn’t hold back her gasp, hearing the realization in his voice, the same inflection he usually reserved to declare that he’d solved a case.

            She let the words wash over her, closing her eyes and briefly thought about not responding to him, of simply hanging up on him to cut him as deeply as he always managed to cut her. “Molly,” he said her name with desperation that he couldn’t hide now, “Molly, _please._ ”

            _Friends._

_This isn’t me._

_My soul._

            “I love you,” she whispered, as if saying those words aloud would have cost her everything, cementing her fate as the line went dead.

            _This isn’t_ me.

            Something was very wrong.  

 


	28. Chapter 28

            Staring at the coffin, Sherlock saw his entire life in the lining of it, saw everything he ever wanted and never knew he’d wanted, saw his past, present, and future. In that coffin, he saw the truth that he had managed to ignore, the truth that he’d blinded himself to.

            _I love you_.

            He replaced the coffin lid, laying his hand on the wood and all he saw was Molly, all he saw was the bump she hid beneath that hideous sweater, saw the life that made her glow even through the security camera footage. He felt her in his bones, in his skin, felt the softness of her body that he hadn’t been able to understand, the changed taste of her against his tongue, the inexplicable warmth when he was inside her, the change in her so profound, and _him so blind_.

Stroking the mahogany, he felt her beneath his fingertips, touched her skin, soothed away her tears, his heart thundering in his chest as he thought about how close he’d come to losing her.

            Again.

_So many days not lived._

_So many words unsaid._

            He’d never been so afraid in his life, had never felt such acute terror, such grief as the timer had counted down to her death, the skin at the back of his skull tightening. Heat prickled across his skin, burning him with the idea that he had been about to watch her parish, that he was about to lose her, about to lose the endless possibilities of her…of them.

            Not Molly and Sherlock.

            Not just Molly and Sherlock anymore.

            But Molly and Sherlock….and their child…Their baby.

            _I love you_.

How many nights had he lain beside her in their bed and stared at her in wonder?

How many hours had he whiled away when she slept against him and tried to decipher what he could say to her, what name could he put to the illogic she brought to life in him, what title he could give to the serenity he felt from simply being in her presence?

            _Love_.

            He saw the words on the coffin lid. There was something reassuring about seeing those words associated with her, with them, as if his… _sister_ had realized that to think Molly loved him was different than to actually _see_ those three words written, plain as day. To _see_ them, to _touch_ the engraving, to _feel_ them etched into the plaque for eternity, and to know its truth.

            How many hours had he roamed his mind palace, how many lifetimes had he spent in her suite in his mind, watching her, reliving his every second with her and thought that maybe this was love, that maybe this was what it felt like to _love_. How many times had he run from that reality? How many times had he forced himself to scoff at that weakness and turn away from it? How many times….

There was a mad logic to what he felt for Molly that even he couldn’t deny, a logic that went beyond a physiological need or ache or reaction.

            It made sense that he touched her hand with his and felt at peace. It made sense that her words brought him succor in his darkest days. It was logical that her smile was worth more to him than all the rest of the world. It was right that his lungs pumped oxygen and heart beat blood with every syllable, every letter of her name.

            Because she understood that he needed that logic, brought a sense of it to their relationship. She had taken the time to be patient with him, had taken the time to let him understand how important physical and emotional intimacy was, how important emotions were to better connect to the world around him. Molly had understood that he was tactile, that he learned more by seeing and touching, and she had helped him see and touch love, and shown him that he became a better man, a better detective from that simple knowledge alone.

            He loved Molly Hooper.

He’d always loved Molly Hooper, and he didn’t think he would ever stop. He could never stop.

The way she snorted when she laughed, her morbid sense of humor, her endless heart, infinite capacity to forgive, the way she stood by him when even he couldn’t stand himself. He loved her idiotic jumpers, the terrible things she did to her hair for formal occasions, like that yellow ribbon at Mary and John’s wedding that he’d used later to tie her up with…and made love to her.

He loved her for the fact that she didn’t hate him for bringing her bags of crisps for lunch and demanded her help and attention. He loved her for seeing the sadness that had haunted him when everyone else had been too busy looking away from him. He loved her for the way she put her hand on top of his heart, touched his skin, spreading her slender fingers and simply feeling his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, like it was something that was worthy of her time and attention. He loved her for always finding something redeeming within him, something that made him worthy of her love and attention.

He looked at the plaque, saw the three words, and felt her love spread through him like wild fire.

But it was too late.

_I don’t love you Molly, I never have and never will._

            What had he said? What he wouldn’t give to unsay it now, undo all those tears he’d caused her...he’d never felt worthy of the warmth and affection Molly showed him…the _love_ that she touched him with…

            And now…

            _Now_ …

            Days unlived with her in the sunshine crashed into him as sure as the waves battering the rocks around the island, the words unspoken ripping him into shreds.

            _Eviscerated_ …without Molly, he was eviscerated.

            _Broken_.

            _Worthless.._.

He was stuck on an island, in a fortress controlled by his mad little sister, with dead bodies piling up around him, drowning him in a sorrow he never thought he could feel. He was not going to survive, his older brother’s voice echoed through his mind palace, reminding him of the balance of probability. More than that, he felt it in his bones that Sherrinford would be his grave, that the rocks and the waves and the sea would steal his last breath and heartbeat.

He had thrown away everything Molly had ever been to him, he had handed all that love over with willing hands, had surrendered his peace, his quiet, his home.

And he would never get the chance to look into her eyes and tell her he loved her, would never experience the profound pleasure of touching her stomach with his palms while he looked into the warmth of her brown eyes, feeling their child move in her womb, growing, getting ready to head into the world, and told the mother of his child, the love of his life, his Molly, that he loved her.

“No,” he shook his head, rejecting the end, rejecting the abject fear that washed over him that he would die in the next few moments, that he would never have a future with Molly, that he would never be given the chance to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, never sink to his knees in front of her and press his ear to her womb, feel her fingers in his hair as she held him and let him drown in the warmth of her love, “no!” he growled and his fists burned as he pounded the coffin, as the splinters cut into his hands, as his arms ached, destroying the coffin and the future it took away from him.

He wanted Molly, he wanted their baby, he wanted a life, a chance to love.

_Too._

_Bloody._

_Late._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First of all, thank you x million for reading, and since this is Sherlock POV, please let me know what you think! I still haven't decided on daily updates or every-other-day torture but here's some mercy.   
> Second of all, I keep getting questions about being followed/contacted on other platforms-- I'm on Tumblr as theHiddenLawyer so you're more than welcome to follow me and contact me on there. I'm pretty accessible!   
> xx


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are too fabulous to be kept waiting!

            When Greg’s team found the cameras, Molly was sitting in the armchair she’d come to think of as Sherlock’s in her living room, her hand stroking the material as if touching him through the upholstery, barely registering what Greg showed her, the five hidden cameras that were recovered from her kitchen alone.

            _This isn’t me._

_We’re friends._

_You’re my friend._

“Do you have _any_ idea what’s going on?” Greg asked, sounding as exhausted as she felt. He’d come to her flat immediately after she’d called him, explaining to him that something was wrong, that Sherlock had called her, suspecting something… _sinister_. He hadn’t asked any more questions, had trusted her instincts enough to bring his team down.  

            “No,” she shook her head, the word barely audible over the roar of chaos in her mind.

            “Do you think it has something to do with the explosion?” he asked.

            “What explosion?” she looked at him sharply, “what are you talking about?”

            “Well, Mycroft made sure it was all hush hush, didn’t make it into any official reports or the news, but I thought—I thought you knew?” the confusion on Greg’s face was palpable, blinking at her as if she’d lost her mind, “I figured Sherlock would have told you! Half of Baker street exploded a few days ago! The flat is nearly completely obliterated. I don’t know how they survived it.”

            “God,” she breathed, suddenly everything falling into place, “was anyone hurt?”

            “No,” he told her, “they were just scraped up a bit, Sherlock and John landed on the awning below, Mycroft went down the stairs and got Mrs. Hudson out,” Greg was staring at her again, “are you telling me _you_ didn’t know?”  
            She shook her head again, her hand stroking her swollen belly, “no,” she told him, “I haven’t—I haven’t been to Baker Street or—or talked to anyone for a few days. _Oh God_ ,” she stood up but there was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go. She tried to call him but kept getting dumped into voicemail, she even tried calling John and Mycroft, but no one was answering.

            Dread filled her.

            It had been bothering her that he’d told her not to hang up during their phone call, and she’d kept thinking how he’d known she was going to. Even in their most heated arguments, she never shut him off, never pushed that red button on the screen to end a call with him, even if they were raging at each other. He couldn’t have known she was going to hang up during their last phone call, so the only explanation was that he had been watching through the hidden cameras.

            His words clung to her thoughts. Never in their life, in the years they’d known each other, in the years of their intimacies together had he referred to her as his friend. And whatever hatred he harbored for their current situation, whatever resentment or confusion he felt about their child, she didn’t think he was capable of reducing their hidden life to mere friendship. He claimed to be an unfeeling machine, but she knew him better than that, understood him beyond that… _We’re friends. You’re my friend_.

            Her mind conjured him up lifetimes ago in her office, dressed in his ratty street clothes, his eyes unfocused, his hair matted and beard shadowing his jaw. _This isn’t me._

He’d used that same tone, that desperation for her to hear all that he couldn’t say, when he’d tried to tell her the truth about Janine. Now he used it to tell her…what?

            The next question was, who’d put the cameras there?

            Clearly it was someone who had access to explosives, because it was no coincidence that Baker street had nearly been leveled only a few days before all of this happened, before the phone call. Therefore, she told herself, pacing her living room with Greg watching her curiously as she chewed her lip, he was being forced to watch her, being forced to…get her to say I love you?

            How bizarre.

            Whoever Faith Smith had been, the fake Faith Smith that they’d thought he’d conjured up from cocaine and heroin, held the answers. She trusted Sherlock’s judgement, knew that Moriarty was dead, so whoever Faith Smith was….

           

* * *

 

            When Greg’s phone rang, Molly thought about how much she hated phones now, how much she despised the technology. Greg’s security team had left hours ago, and the two now sat in tense, anxious silence in her flat, waiting for the next shoe to drop, waiting for someone to say something and help them determine what was happening. A storm was raging outside, rain pounding down against the window with viciousness, reflecting the mad thoughts that had Molly rubbing her child protectively in her womb and grinding antacid tablets like they were candy.

            “Sherlock!” Greg yelled, standing up, “where are you!” Whatever Sherlock was saying silenced Greg, made his mouth drop open in a lax expression of shock, listening intently, “yeah, alright,” he glanced at her, “Molly—” but it was clear that Sherlock interrupted him.

            “What is it!” she nearly yelled, gripping his arm, “where are they? Are the alright?”

            “They’re fine. Ish,” he cleared his throat, “I have no idea what he just said honestly, I just know they’re at his family estate, Musgrave? And Mycroft is being transported to Bart’s via helicopter. I’m going to Musgrave.”

            “I’ll come with you!”

            “No,” Greg shook his head, “Sherlock was very clear that you’re to meet Mycroft at Bart’s, apparently he’s been drugged or something, and he wants you to make sure he’s cared for.”

           


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm awesome. You're welcome.

            Mycroft was barely conscious when he was transported down to the emergency ward from the helipad but remained conscious enough to demand that Molly Hooper be given exclusive access to all of his charts, medical records, and lab results, that any decision made by the doctors had to go through her. Her coworkers looked at her with stunned silence, most of them knowing that Mycroft Holmes as not only Sherlock’s imposing older brother, but he was the government itself.

            It was two hours after he’d initially been admitted that he was finally resting comfortably, all the toxins used in his body identified and given antidotes, all his body scanned for breaks and contusions that were swiftly addressed. Feeling restless and awkward, her bloody phone in hand, she paced the hallway outside Mycroft’s room, thinking that if she never got another phone call or saw another hospital hallway or room for the rest of her life, she would be happy and content.

            The ringer volume on her phone was turned up, there was no way she would miss any call that came through but she kept glancing at the screen, making sure the battery was still full, that she still had service as she paced and paced and _paced_ , her hand glued to her stomach in a gesture that was reassuring to her.

            There was so much confusion around her that she doubted she knew what was real and what wasn’t anymore. There had been mentions of something called Sherrinford thrown around her, the helicopter medics saying things about going to the island fortress escorted by MI6 agents that confused her even more. She wondered if Mycroft and Sherlock had been together, but Sherlock was currently in Musgrave…miles and miles away. What and where was Musgrave, she didn’t really know.

            They’d clearly been kidnapped but by who? And why?

            All thoughts leapt out of her mind, ceasing to exist, the only thing that mattered now was the man walking down the hallway.

Tall, lean, dressed in a black suit with a black overcoat with the collar turned up, black curls drying in frizzy waves, he looked drawn, exhausted. Even from a distance she could see he was clenching his jaw, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his great coat, mud caked his shoes and pants. She didn’t see John Watson or Greg following him, didn’t register anything except the way he looked when he spotted her, saw his shuddering breath as if he finally released everything he’d been thinking.

            _My soul_.

            She saw his mouth move, forming her name as he took the last few steps to her at a run, “Molly,” he breathed, cupping her face in his palms as she gripping his sides, their bodies colliding together in the hallway and she absorbed him, shocked at what she saw in his eyes, the grief that washed over him, the tears that flooded the depths of his blue eyes as he inspected her face in palms. He looked as if he was in mourning, looking so forlorn, long and lost, as if his entire grip on reality, on his world, had been stolen from him, “Molly,” he sighed again, touching her face with his fingertips like a blind man wanting to see.

            “I’m here,” she told him, closing her eyes at his touch, his fingers trembling, his eyes holding desperation she wanted to erase, tears clinging to those impossibly long, pale eyelashes.

“I meant it,” his voice was thick, trembling much like his hands against her face, “I need—I need you to know Molly, I meant it,” his voice was so deep that his words were garbled as he grabbed the lapels of her jacket, his knuckles turning white from the ferocity of his grip on her, “ _I meant it_ ,” he growled, “do you understand? It wasn’t a game…not for me Molly, not for me.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him against her and felt him melt, felt all his tension leave him and left him quivering against her, nearly collapsing against her. He became dead weight against her and she struggled to keep him up, realized she couldn’t hold him up any longer and walked them backwards to the plastic seats she knew was behind them.

She pushed him down into one of the chairs and she sat in his lap, letting him bury his face in her throat, in her hair as he tried to hide his sobs, silence them before they echoed on the tiles around him. “I know,” she soothed him, her words pressed to his temple, “I’m here,” she told him, stroking his hair with her fingers, her lips pressed to his ear as she whispered to him, his body shuttering in waves of torture, of grief that she couldn’t begin to comprehend.

            Molly closed her eyes, kissing whatever part of him she could get to, his temples, the side of his face, his cheek, his ears. She didn’t know what she could say, didn’t know how to sooth him beyond simply holding him as he broke down to his very molecules in her arms, didn’t know anything beyond the endearments that she murmured against him, twirling his hair around her fingers as she called him her love, her darling, her heart, her soul, her home. She rubbed a hand down his back, feeling the moisture his coat had retained, wanting to know what had happened but it didn’t matter, not when he was grieving so profoundly, not when he was unglued and needed her strength.

            She lost count of their heartbeats as they sat together. Neither of them noticed the shocked expressions of Greg or John’s faces as she sat in his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.  Molly nor Sherlock registered or bothered with the looks they got from the hospital staff and visitors that cast curious looks at the woman enfolded in the man’s arms, his great coat wrapped around them as he hid his face so completely against her throat that they couldn’t see his features. Molly and Sherlock neither knew or cared that all anyone could really see of Molly was her brown hair, she was so completely engulfed in his arms, in her Sherlock.

            Eventually he calmed, his gut-wrenching sobs quieting at last, his tears wetting her neck, but she didn’t care. He pulled away slightly to press his forehead against hers, his blue eyes bloodshot, his beautiful face mottled by the tears that flowed, his palm warm as he caressed her stomach. He smiled at her, but a sob escaped, “I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d lost you both.”

            She shook her head, cupping his face in her palms, “you’re not getting rid of us so easily Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered.

            “I—I love you,” the expression of calm he’d been trying to cultivate now dissolved completely, as if any defenses he’d ever had had been destroyed, a flood gate had opened, “I love you.”

            She squeezed her eyes shut, a rush of warmth overwhelming her, his words spreading through her like a pleasant, welcome fire. She’d dreamt of hearing them from him for so long, had wanted him to acknowledge it for an eternity and beyond. “I love you too,” she assured him, stroking the hollow beneath his cheeks, kissing her lips there and tasting his tears, “I always will.”

            His hand was absently rubbing her stomach now, “still worth something? After everything?”  
            Molly rolled her eyes, “for a genius you can be incredibly thick,” she murmured, sighing against him, breath for breath, she used both of her hands to wipe his cheeks of his tears, “care to explain what’s happening?”

He shook his head, “soon,” he promised, “right now all I really want to do is hold you.”

She nodded as he pressed his cheek against her chest, taking a shuddering breath with his thumb stroking her stomach as if he couldn’t stop. She looked down and saw that his eyes were closed, a look of pure agony on his face.

            “So!” Greg interrupted them, “how long has _this_ been going on?”

            Sherlock tightened his arms around Molly, pulling her harder against his body, eyes still closed as he faced away from Greg and John. She pressed her hand against the side of his face, blocking all sound, letting him find peace, letting his world be filled with nothing but her heartbeat and the knowledge of their baby as she answered, “uh, since I helped him jump off the roof,” she cleared her throat, “well, since I faked him jumping off the roof.”

            “What!” John’s jaw dropped, the expression on his face incredulous, “that was what, five years ago?”

            Molly chuckled, “about, yeah. I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs but,” she shrugged the shoulder Sherlock wasn’t using, “yeah.”

            “And the baby, is--?” John didn’t seem to be able to finish his sentence.

            “What baby!” Greg yelled, and Molly couldn’t help laughing as Sherlock raised his head.

            “The great taxpayers of this country have no idea how disgustingly wasted their contributions are to your salary,” he said, his tone flat but he grinned at Greg, something free and unrestrained in the way he addressed the two men, “the baby my Molly is carrying, Greg, sixteen weeks now,” he told them. He looked at John with a tired grin, “John, meet High Wycombe.”

            She ran her hand over his on her stomach, wanting to feel the strength of his palm, those long fingers against her womb, touching their child until he could hold the baby in his arms. “What happened to your hands?” she practically yelled, feeling the raw wounds on his knuckles, feeling the splinters that must have caused him agony. She grabbed his hand and looked at them, “were you trying to punch a tree to death?” she asked, wincing.

            “I’ll tell you later,” he told her, letting his head fall back as he watched her lazily, his expression calm, the face of someone who had finally let go, let everything wash away from him in his tears.

            “Ok,” she frowned, “can we please get a doctor or nurse to clean these out?”  
            Sherlock shook his head stubbornly, “you do it,” he told her.

            “Impossible,” she rolled her eyes, kissing him lightly on the lips before getting off his lap. She was about to step away from him when he grabbed her wrist. Frowning, she looked down at him and saw the expression on his face, the way his mouth worked to formulate words that weren’t quite ready for composition, his eyes holding the knowledge that his voice was failing to convey. “I’ll be back in two seconds,” she leaned down to kiss his forehead, “I promise.”

            Going to the nurse’s station, she asked them for a few supplies, including a pair of sterile tweezers, peroxide, and bandages. She walked back to the hallway, avoiding Greg and John’s curious, interested eyes as she sat next to Sherlock, who had his eyes closed, head resting back against the wall still. He was instantly alert when she sat next to him, taking his hand in her lap, wincing when she saw just how terrible his wounds were, “oh darling,” she murmured, not hearing Greg nearly choke at her words, “this is going to hurt,” she told him, looking up into those bright eyes.

            “Don’t care,” he told her with a deep breath, and let her take the splinters out, washing the wounds out and wrapping a bandage around the raw skin.

            He’d looked at her not long after that, exhaustion clear in his expression, in the way he reached behind him to squeeze the aching muscles of his neck and quietly asked her to take him home.

Sherlock spent hours sitting with Mycroft, the two brother’s heads together as they spoke in hushed tones with Molly staying in the corner to give them privacy, Sherlock’s expression grave as he walked away to make phone calls, his jaw ticking with impatience. She offered to give them privacy, telling them that she didn’t mind waiting in the hallway but Sherlock adamantly told her to stay. Mycroft and Sherlock both looked so exhausted, so drained of any color, of any willingness to do anything but sleep. It was with great pleasure when she realized that Sherlock was drawing strength from her, every time he glanced at her while he was on the phone, every time he asked her to do something for him like get him a piece of paper to write things down, call his parents to tell them that Mycroft was in hospital, or even give him a sip of her water.

She took him home, smiling when he squeezed Mycroft’s hand with his before they left. He didn’t relinquish his hold on her fingers as they walked out into the morning air, the sun just starting to rise when he hailed a cab for them, giving the driver her address before settling next to her in the back. By the time they got to her flat, he was barely moving, his exhaustion so heavy, so beyond just physical.

But he made it upstairs, and that was all she needed, sitting him down and stripping him methodically down to his pants, bringing a wet towel to wipe away his sweat, slipping into bed next to him, smiling as he fell asleep with his face pressed against her stomach while she lay next to him on her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a lot of questions about the music I listen to while I write, and with this chapter it was mostly Florence + The Machine's Long & Lost.


	31. Chapter 31

            He slept most of the next day, and she let him, unable to imagine what he had gone through. She’d received a call from John Watson some time in the afternoon, explaining to her as much as he could about Eurus and Faith Smith and his therapist…and Victor. She sat at the kitchen table, waiting patiently for him to wake up, thinking what she would say to him, knowing she would have to force him to confide in her personally, to tell her the story himself.

            She couldn’t even imagine the floodgates that had been opened in his mind, in his emotions. To have such horrendous childhood trauma suddenly be brought to light, to have it so acutely shown… _My soul_.

            Molly swore she would fill his life with so much love, with so much joy and happiness that the nightmare he had endured at Sherrinford, the trauma of Victor’s death would be nothing but painful memories, memories he would bury with happy ones. She was lost in her thoughts, in her fantasies of a life filled with absolute joy when she heard him bellowing her name and she took the steps two at a time, throwing open the bedroom door to see him flailing in the sheets, in the throws of a nightmare, wrestling the demons that hounded him in sleep, her name a scream that shook the windows.   
            “I’m here!” she said loudly, diving between his arms, gripping his wrists to still him on the mattress, “Sherlock, I’m here darling,” she pressed her lips to her throat as he kicked his head back on the pillow, letting out a final scream of agony, the veins in his throat looking as if they would burst as his voice left her ears ringing before finally stilling at her touch, “wake up Sherlock,” she told him, keeping her voice even, “just open your eyes, I’m right here. Everything’s fine,” she told him, peppering his face and throat with kisses, “we’re all going to be alright.”

            Those mercurial eyes, a stormy gray now, opened and it took him a heartbeat or two to recognize her, for his subconscious to release the war that had been waged against it, before recognition melted the ice chips of gray and tears flooded his eyes. “Molly,” he breathed.

            “You’re ok,” she murmured, releasing his wrist to stroke his hair from his eyes, “it’s all going to be alright, one way or another. I promise.”

            He sighed, and she lay against him, smiling at the way his hand found her belly between them as they lay facing each other, his eyes luminous. She reached up to touch his wet cheeks, “want to tell me what happened?” she asked softly.

            “No,” he said with a forced laugh, “but I owe you an explanation, my Molly.”

            And so, they spent the rest of the afternoon in bed together, stroking each other’s skin, comforting each other and being comforted, their child nestled between their bodies as he told her about Eurus, about the three identities she’d used to navigate around them, how Moriarty had become her ally. He told her about the games Eurus played, about the governor and his wife, about the three brothers she’d murdered, about his resolve to shoot himself instead of pulling the trigger and taking his brother’s life.

He told her in halting breaths, fighting tears, fighting his own feelings as he told her about Eurus’s song, about Redbeard…about Victor Trevor, the girl on the plane…She cried with him, she cried for him, closing her eyes and seeing the lovely, curly headed boy with the mercurial eyes that had been so traumatized by his best friends death, that he had built his entire identity around the lie he told himself. The better lie, as he called it, that he’d always been emotionless, that he never felt, that he was above the concept of love and feelings and emotions.

            “Mycroft and I agreed, we have to tell mum and dad she’s alive,” he murmured, wiping impatiently at his tears, turning his face into the pillow to wipe them away in the silk, “that’s a conversation I’m looking forward to.”

            She rubbed his chest with her palm, “they deserve to know,” she murmured, “and Mycroft…Mycroft did his best Sherlock, none of you can grudge him that. He did what he thought was best.”

            He nodded silently, “I…I understand that now,” he murmured, “I – I understand why he did what he did.”

            “Good,” she murmured, “so where did I come in all of this?” she asked, “the—the phone call? Why did you force me to tell you I love you?”

            “Damn,” he breathed, “I was hoping John had told you about that.”

            Molly chuckled quietly, her fingertips tracing his cheekbones, “I’m pretty sure he was carefully avoiding it like you.”

            “There was…there was a coffin,” he started slowly, unable to look in her eyes as he told her about the bomb that Eurus had threatened him with, the promise that Molly would die in front of his eyes if he didn’t get her to say those words to him.

            “Oh my love,” she breathed and kissed him slowly, drawing him on top of her, laughing against his mouth when he tried not to settle his weight against her, kneeling awkwardly between her legs, “you’re not going to hurt the baby you know,” she laughed, stroking her hands down his back, “we still have some time until we have to get creative about positions.” But he refused still, so she wrapped her legs around his waist, arms around his neck as she drew him down against her, forcing him to lay on top of her.

            They kissed slowly, tasting each other slowly, all the time in the world stretched out before them now, their future a glowing orb. She opened her mouth, letting him deepen their kiss with a sigh, and somehow all of this felt different… _he_ felt different to her, their kiss deeper as if their souls were now completely melted together, fused together as completely as their DNA had come together to create their child. There was a warm weight in her chest, an assurance that this was it, that her fate was forever going to be in Sherlock’s name.

            She asked him about the phone call, the hypothetical way he’d asked her about putting Mycroft in the hospital, and he laughed quietly, explaining that they’d needed a cover, a story while they got to Sherrinford. They had managed to convince cabinet officials that Mycroft had been injured and was in the hospital, and her help had allowed them to put Mycroft in the hospital without anyone suspecting that he was, in fact, on a helicopter on the way to Sherrinford. Mycroft and Sherlock had suspected a leak within the security forces that was helping Eurus from within, so they’d used the explosion as a distraction, a way to get Mycroft, John, and himself on to the island without warning Eurus. Molly sighed, listening to him explain the disguises they’d worn, the way they’d snuck on to the island fortress, trying not to show her terror at his sister’s abilities, the power she held.

            “Sherlock,” she murmured quietly, running her fingers through his hair, “how—how did she—your sister—Eurus--- how did she know about...about me? About…us?”

            He glanced up at her, “I don’t know,” he answered, “if she was monitoring…me, if she was monitoring Baker Street—” he shook his head again, “an hour on twitter and she predicated countless terrorist attacks. Two seconds watching me with you would give away all my secrets.”

            “What secrets?” her voice was soft, her hand coming to rest at the center of his chest. She immediately felt guilty, not wanting to feel like she was pushing him.

            “You,” he answered softly, “you,” he repeated and pulled her closer to him, “I need you to understand—those things I said when you told me about—”

            “I know,” she interrupted, “I know darling. It’s alright,” he told him, pressing her forehead to his, letting them breath together, “I understand.”

            “My Molly,” he rested his head against her chest, sighing her name as he tangled their legs together, “I don’t know what to do,” he said quietly, “I don’t know where to go from here. The roads I’ve walked have always been murky at best but this, this…I feel _blind_.”

            She kissed his forehead, “be patient with yourself,” she told him, “today, all you’re going to do is take a bath, eat, maybe visit John and Rosie or spend the day not doing anything with me. Then tomorrow, we’re going to figure it out, and we’re going to move one day at a time.”

            But Sherlock was shaking his head stubbornly, “I have to—I have to call Victor’s parents, and my parents. Make sure Eurus is settled,” he breathed.

            “I can do all that for you,” she murmured.

            He lifted himself to look into her eyes with a frown as if he couldn’t quite figure her out, “you would do that for me?”

            “Thick as pig shit, I swear,” she rolled her eyes.

            But he didn’t let her make those calls, do that research as they sat at her kitchen table, a plate of ginger nuts by their tea as she sat by him, as he made those phone calls. His parents had arrived in London that morning, and he promised to meet them at Mycroft’s house, who’d been released earlier that morning. The phone call to Victor Trevor’s parents was the hardest and she kissed his palm as he forced the words out, his eyes alight with pain as he got through the call.

            “I was thinking,” she murmured, “I can…I can excavate his remains,” she told him, “his parents can properly bury him.”

            “I love you,” he murmured, pulling her against him, his hand on her stomach, “I love you Molly Hooper.”

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!! xx

            In the end he moved into her flat without either one of them really realizing when it had happened, when Baker Street became his office and Molly’s flat his home. But the shift happened, no one questioned it, too busy dealing with everything else to really comment on the fact that Molly and Sherlock had shacked up together, as Molly put it with deliberate indelicacy.

            The weeks following Sherrinford were chaotic, heartbreaking, painful and exhausting for all those involved but one way or another, they carried the other through the hell of it all. She had kept her word to Sherlock and excavated the young boy’s remains, treating the bones with love and reverence as she uncovered them, holding Sherlock’s hand in hers as Victor was finally laid to rest. She had accepted Mrs. and Mr. Trevor’s hugs with warmth, and watched Sherlock wrap his arms around Mrs. Trevor and not hide his tears, watched the way he lurched towards his own mother and shocked her with the force of his hug. But she simply cupped the back of his head, soothing her son. Mycroft had stood stiffly next to Molly, looking into the distance with a clenched jaw.

            When Sherlock had come home from visiting Eurus and told Molly about her silence, about her lack of words, her catatonic state terrifying him as he wondered where her thoughts carried her, Molly had suggested that he play the violin for her. He’d shrugged, “worth a shot,” he’d murmured, and took his violin with him to visit his sister. He’d returned to her with a smile, telling her that she had reacted, that he had seen life on his baby sister’s face when he’d started playing for her.

            For months following Sherrinford, he would have horrendous nightmares that animated him, that made him call out, bellowing in the night until she soothed his dreams away, until her voice broke through his subconscious. His eyes would flip open, instantly filling with tears he couldn’t hide, and clinging to Molly like his entire existence depended on her.

Sometimes he would dream that there had been a bomb and that she had rightfully hated him so much that she didn’t pick up, that he would see her kitchen explode….sometimes he would be trapped on Sherrinford, alone, deserted, trying to get out but there were never any doors, never any windows, just stone walls that closed in around him, his screams echoing in the emptiness…sometimes he would see Victor, hear his laughter turn into an agonized scream that echoed through the well, his body composing rapidly in front of Sherlock’s eyes…Sometimes he would pull the trigger and watch his brother collapse, blood blossoming in his chest, red garish against the white of his shirt.

He would wake up screaming, tears streaming down his face, so horrified that he would beg the God Molly prayed to that his nightmares stay away from his unborn child, that the reality of his baby never touch his past while he slept. And Molly…Molly was always there, and she never complained about being uncomfortable or being deprived of sleep, patiently laying on her back, letting him rest his ear against her chest or womb, listening to the life that sustained him.   

            It was with the greatest pride in Molly’s soul that she watched Sherlock find strength to bring his family together, to help his parents make their peace with Eurus’s existence, helped them understand Mycroft’s goodness, his logic in the lie, the kindness he’d told them. Molly had made him laugh when she’d invited his parents and Mycroft over for dinner one night, his reluctance melting with a grin eventually, pleased as he watched her navigate around his family with ease, with a smile, with a grin. She and his father had become mates, their peacefulness and serenity cancelling out Dr. Holmes, Mycroft, and Sherlock’s chaotic nature. His mum was even more in love with her than Sherlock was, and Dr. Holmes demanded to have every sonogram, every detail, every twitch, and movement of her grandchild be sent to her as it happened, touching Molly’s stomach with reverence. Molly even managed to tease out smiles from Mycroft that night, and Sherlock realized the two were friends, although neither would admit to it.

            John and Rosie’s presence in their life was unchanged, unquestioned. Sherlock had watched with fascination as Rosie recognized the baby that grew in Molly’s womb, as the girl purposefully hugged Molly with her arms around Molly’s waist, small ear pressed to Molly’s stomach as if she was listening for the baby that grew in her womb. John had felt betrayed after the revelation of Molly and Sherlock’s relationship, but even that, Molly had dealt with deftly, teasing him, telling him that if he’d paid attention, he would have figured it out. She had sat him down, listing all those moments between Sherlock and Molly that he’d missed, like the fact that she’d left the wedding right after he had, that they’d left his daughter’s baptism together, the fact that she was usually inexplicably at Baker Street at odd hours of the day.

            John had rolled his eyes, admitting that he should’ve known, should have guessed. He’d glared playfully at Sherlock, who was spread out on the floor of Molly’s flat, playing contentedly with his goddaughter, “High Wycombe, eh?”

            Sherlock grew in his fatherhood as much as Molly ballooned with their growing baby. She felt swollen with life, she was told that she was glowing with happiness and motherhood but she didn’t believe any of it. Her hormones drove her crazy, but God forbid anyone say the word in front of her. Sherlock had found out the hard way not to tease her about her size, teasingly telling her that it was an old wives’ tale that a mother pregnant with a daughter was ugly when she was pregnant and glowed when she was going to have a boy, assuring her that it was best they look up baby girl names. It had taken him three hours to console her, and a pint of chocolate ice-cream, endless murmurs and kisses to draw a smile from her.

            He spent hours with his ear pressed against her womb, listening to the life that was becoming more animated within her, that had started to respond to his voice with urgency. They had gotten to a point where Sherlock couldn’t speak while in the same room with Molly without their child kicking and moving, responding to its father’s voice. They’d even had a brief disagreement about whether or not they should find out the sex of the baby, until they’d realized they were both agreeing that they should find out and simply arguing because they were Sherlock and Molly.

            She was on her back, smiling at the tech that walked in, Sherlock standing by Molly, an imposing figure in his Belstaff and the black and black suit beneath. He might have been a warmer human being in his private life, but he kept his façade around strangers and clients, cold and calculating when around unfamiliar people. “This is going to be a bit cold,” the tech warned her before squirting jelly on Molly’s stomach, the tech’s eyes flicking nervously up to Sherlock.

            Molly rolled her eyes at him, smacking his arm lightly with the back of her hand, “relax darling, you’re terrifying her,” she chuckled.

            “I’m a father, waiting by the mother of his child, about to find out if he will have a son or a daughter,” he raised a brow, “tell me, how am I terrifying?”

            Laughing, Molly had turned her attention to the monitor as the tech searched for their baby, pushing and prodding their child to turn around, to let them discern whether Sherlock and Molly would have a son or a daughter. The tech needn’t have stayed terrified for long, the second Sherlock heard their baby’s heartbeat his expression softened, his breath a sigh, a smile on his lips as their baby came into view, pulsing to life, to complete image when the tech found a good angle.

            Because they were Sherlock and Molly, they were faster than the tech, recognizing their son with a grin, “a boy!” the tech declared.

            Molly and Sherlock’s next fight was the nursery.

            She was sitting on the sofa in Baker Street after the last of Sherlock’s clients had left the premises, six months pregnant and impatient for John to take Rosie home so she could lose herself in Sherlock’s body. She had reached the height of pregnancy hormones and she couldn’t get enough of him now, starved for his touch, wanting his kisses, his flesh. “I refuse to wrap this child up in blue,” she said, rubbing her belly, “I mean, just because he’s a boy, why should he be saddled with blue? Why can’t his room be another color? Like purple or yellow or green?”

            “What color do you want the room to be then?” Mrs. Hudson was the only person in the room brave enough to argue with her, “you’re having a _boy!_ Everything has to be blue!”  
            “Yes but _why_!” Molly rolled her eyes, her ankles swollen, wanting pickles with as much passion as she wanted Sherlock’s body, “pink for girls, blue for boy. It’s so arbitrary! And this one,” she gestured to Sherlock, “wants to do the nursery in the periodic table for God’s sake.”

            “What good are zoo animals and circus creatures?” he asked from the opposite end of the couch where he was sitting with Rosie nestled in his lap, his palm resting on Molly’s foot.

            “Not zoo animals and circus creatures but something more joyful than the periodic table,” she laughed as their son kicked her in response to his father, “oh! Maybe the solar system!”

            “Oh God!” John laughed, “you two are _impossible_!”

            She was finally alone with her love, John taking an exhausted Rosie home, Mrs. Hudson leaving the couple with an exhausted sigh, having failed to convince Molly that blue was for boys and pink for girls. Molly had looked at her Sherlock, at her love, watched the heat flicker to life in his eyes as he knelt at her feet, as he kissed her with such reverence, with such gentle lips and fingertips that whispered and feathered across her skin.

            As he tasted her, as he took her in his arms, as he slipped himself so deep inside her, burying his face against her throat and listened to her ragged breathing, the way her breath hitched in her throat, the way she moaned his name as he rode her. His Molly…he licked her throat as she enveloped him, wondering if it was his imagination or if she felt different, if she tasted different against his tongue, more delicious and potent as he became a cannibal for all things Molly Hooper. Was it his imagination or her mother’s body that made her feel swollen and so much warmer, wetter, more welcoming, more maddening as she surrounded him, as she accepted him into her body…stroke after stroke, moan after moan…heartbeat after ragged heartbeat.

            He looked deep into his Molly’s eyes as he shattered inside her, as he worshipped her life-giving body, and knew he was home.

            In the end, they’d agreed to a sea green color Molly loved because it reminded her of Sherlock’s eyes. They picked o2ut the bedding together without much fuss, the theme of the room developing into one of books and imagination, clouds floating throughout their son’s nursery, carrying with it dreams and words from children’s books, and quotes his father had found.

            Even Mycroft started to get swept up in the joy of having a new life around, showing general interest in his nephew in the beginning but soon, it became obvious to everyone who saw him around Molly or heard him talk about his nephew that the unborn child already had Mycroft wrapped around his little finger. He pretended he wasn’t excited but everyone who knew him best saw Molly’s due date circled in red on his calendar.

            As they neared her due date, Molly and Sherlock walked hand in hand to the doctor’s office for a final examination. Well, Molly waddled, Sherlock walked with grace, holding hands, never letting the other go. Her thoughts were filled with the bursting life in her womb, in the way her back and shoulders ached, her bladder her son’s favorite squeeze toy and football, uncomfortable and just…ugh. Uncomfortable. They were in the waiting room, Molly rifling through the magazine from five years ago, her head resting against Sherlock as he sat ramrod straight, with perfect, impatient posture.

            “Aren’t you Sherlock Holmes?” a man asked from across the waiting room, a tiny baby in a car seat by his feet.

            Sherlock looked up, suspicion immediately in his expression, “yes,” he answered in that intimidating tone, daring the man to say anything else.

            “You’re about to become a father too, eh? This must be your wife! Didn’t know you were married!” he spoke rapidly.

            Sherlock didn’t respond, and Molly felt relieved when the nurse opened the door to call them into the exam room, taking Molly’s measurements and blood pressure. The doctor was with them almost immediately, having become accustomed to Sherlock’s impatience. When the doctor touched Molly’s stomach, her fingers nimble and deciding to do a sonogram, Molly watched worry flood Sherlock’s face. She squeezed his hand as tightly as she could, listening to the doctor tell them that the baby was breached, that he still had time to turn around but as he sat, he was going to come out feet first.

            The doctor assured them both that it was relatively normal, that there was nothing to worry about, that nearly all baby’s who were breeched were born perfectly healthy with no damage to either the mother or the baby. Molly nodded her understanding as Sherlock tried to break her fingers in his grip, worry overwhelming him, terrifying him.

            When they got home, he sat her down on the sofa and gave their son a good talking to. “You’ve spent nearly nine months driving your poor mother crazy. You’re nearly five kilos and you can’t imagine the pain she’s in, and now you’ve decided you’re going to show us your feet first?” he was talking directly to her stomach, “that is unacceptable, son of mine. You set yourself straight, you have three weeks.”

            And miraculously, their son listened and decided he was going to present himself to the world headfirst.

            Of course, this was Molly and Sherlock, and it would have been unacceptable for their son to be born without drama.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for reading, as always! I haven't gotten a chance to respond to your lovely, life-giving comments but I promise I will. As always, you can find me on Tumblr as thehiddenlawyer :*

            When her water broke, Sherlock nearly passed out in panic even though they had talked about this moment countless times, had rehearsed and talked about exactly what they would do and how they would do it. She blamed his confusion on the fact that their son had decided to arrive at 4 o’clock in the morning, waking Molly up with uncomfortable wetness between her thighs. She’d reached out to Sherlock, tapping him on the shoulder before clicking on the lamp on her nightstand. He’d been dead asleep, his expression fuzzy but with a single look at her, he’d known it was time.

            Uncharacteristically ungraceful he’d pitched himself off the bed, falling flat on his face before standing up. “Molly,” he breathed, “ok, ok. Molly, ok, alright, it’s alright, we’re ok,” he kept saying, putting on his Belstaff over his bare torso and pajama bottoms, his hair standing in odd clumps, “it’s alright,” he kept muttering as she watched him calmly, trying not to laugh as he walked to their closet to grab their prepared bags and silently rushed down the stairs.

            She grinned, counting the seconds it took him to realize he’d left her behind. She heard his pounding footsteps, watched his sheepish smile, pressing kisses to her hands as he helped her out of bed. He ushered her to the waiting car, Mycroft having assigned a private car to follow her at all times, instructed to drive her to the hospital whenever she needed it.

            Anyone who saw Sherlock Holmes that day would not dare to comment about the state of disarray he was in, the uncharacteristic panic and jerkiness that animated and scattered his thoughts. He paced her room and the hallways mindlessly, barely registering the arrival of his parents and John, barely realized that Mycroft had moved his office temporarily to the fifth floor of the hospital, didn’t understand that he was being force fed by Mrs. Hudson until he felt his body start functioning again.

            His entire life, his every molecule, his every breath was with Molly, keeping count of her contractions, her moans and eventual screams of pain tearing his soul to shreds as he tried to help her through it all, as he pressed kisses to her forehead and told her he was proud of her. He slept fitfully next to her after she’d been given the epidural she’d loudly demanded. His mum had come in while they slept, smiling at the way the clung onto each other’s hands even in sleep, covering her son with a blanket and kissing his forehead while his dad had smiled down at Molly with affection.

            It was at 7:19pm the next day, with Molly gripping the front of Sherlock’s shirt so tightly that she nearly ripped it apart, that she gave a final push and their son came into the world. His cries filled the room, squalling, angry, already discontent with the world around him, not shy about expressing his displeasure at being deprived of his mother’s warmth and comfort.

            Sherlock was speechless, felt his breath leave his lungs as he watched the bundle of noise wiped rather crudely and efficiently by the nurses, wrapping him in a somewhat clean cloth before putting him against Molly’s breast. He looked at his love, looked into her brown eyes, the person that mattered the most…the woman that he’d always needed…holding a piece of him in her arms, living proof that he had a heart worthy of Molly Hooper’s love.

            “Hi,” she said through tears, her voice thick with emotion, her hair sticking to the sweat on her face, her tears flowing freely as she looked into their son’s face, “oh my God, hi,” she breathed, looking up at Sherlock, “he’s here.”

            Sherlock laughed breathlessly, unbelieving, refusing to believe…he was a father.

            _A father_.

            He looked at his son, looked at the red face, at the pursed lips and felt like he was floating away from himself, like his entire existence had lost its meaning, all his past, all his dreams, all his future now belonged to this tiny life.

This tiny life, this tiny son, this tiny bundle of perfection.

            _My son_.

            “God,” he breathed, nearly collapsing, hesitantly touching the back of his finger to his son’s hand and gasping at the perfect silkiness of skin, some part of him wanting very much let himself faint, to lose consciousness, save him from his own damned feelings. It was too much, this was too much but oh, it was the world.

            _My son_.

            “So, you’re the one that’s been kicking in protest every time I speak,” he murmured, not realizing he was crying until his Molly wiped away his tear, resting her head against Sherlock’s chest, her eyes only for their son.

            “He’s so perfect,” she whispered, “and he’s ours.”

            Sherlock kissed the mother of his child, relishing the taste of her, his hand finding hers beneath their son’s tiny, perfect body.

            _My son_.

            The nurses interrupted them, haphazardly carrying the baby away, explaining in words Sherlock didn’t comprehend that they had to examine him, give him his inoculations, check him over to make sure he was healthy, “we’ll bring him back soon, I promise,” the nurse told him.

            He turned his attention back to Molly, who had collapsed back against the bed, wincing as the doctors continued working on her body, doing things he didn’t want to think about as he stroked her forehead, kissing her slowly, tasting her tears and her relief as he cupped her jaw in his palm. “I love you so much,” he told her, “love of my life, my one and all, the mother of my child, my Molly.”

            She grinned sleepily at him, “I love you,” she murmured, laughing softly, “we should probably tell the lot in the waiting room that he’s here.”

            Reluctantly he left his love and his new, little love in the hospital room, walking out of the delivery room and towards the waiting room tucked safely away that the delivering mother’s screams would not be heard. He found his parents sitting next to each other in the corner, both engrossed in whatever they were reading with his father’s arm wrapped around his mum’s shoulders. Mycroft was standing by the window, looking outside with a familiar contemplative expression, wearing a three-piece suit. John was sitting on the floor with Rosie, playing with the silly table games that every hospital waiting room had to keep the children entertained. Even Mrs. Hudson was there, dozing quietly even though she held a magazine open.

            “Well!” his father spotted him, startling the serenity in the room.

            “3.9 kilograms, 51.6 centimeters, born at 7:19pm, on the 27th of March, a beautiful, healthy _son_ ,” Sherlock wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to smile and collapse and wound up doing all four at the same time.

            His father reached him first, hugging him tightly and by the same grace keeping him upright, his mum and Mrs. Hudson’s hugs tighter, longer, crying along with him. John’s grin was broad as he hugged Sherlock, heartily patting him on the back, “congratulations then mate,” he said.

            Sherlock bent down with a grin to lift Rosie in his arms, looking at his brother, “you’re an uncle now Mycroft, no need to look so sour.”

            “Yes,” Mycroft walked forward, hands in his vest pocket, “rather a large baby.”

            Sherlock grinned, “chubby little fella, just like his uncle. Must keep him away from the sweets.”

            Mycroft’s smile was genuine, extending a hand to Sherlock, “congratulations on your son, brother mine, may he spend his life forever overcome with joy with success at his beck and call.”

            “Thanks blood,” Sherlock grinned.

            “Does he have a name?” his mother asked excitedly, “can we see him? How’s Molly?”

            “My son remains _Innominatam_ Holmes,” he said with a bow, “you can’t see him just yet, and Molly’s doing just fine, she did beautifully.”

            “Sorry, _Inno-_ what?” John asked.

            “Nameless,” Mycroft chuckled, “it means nameless, in Latin.”

            When he went back to his Molly and his son, Sherlock grinned when he found her sitting up, a nurse huddled next to her, showing Molly how to feed him. The look of concentration on both of their faces, Molly and the baby’s, not the nurse, made him feel ridiculously happy and content, with an eerie knowledge that if he were to drop dead then, he would be happy. The nurse was smiling at Molly, chuckling slightly at the look of astonishment on her face as their son latched on to his mother, instinctively finding milk, filling his belly with the familiarity of _her_ , the one that had carried him inside her for nine months.

            Her eyes found him immediately, “Sherlock,” she breathed, “oh my God, he’s _feeding_ ,” she said with excitement, “look!” and Sherlock sat beside them, the nurse standing by in case, and he gently touched the wisps of black hair on top of his son’s perfectly round head, counting his inexplicably blonde, ridiculously long eyelashes that fanned across his cheeks, touched the skin of his cheek with a fingertip, wondering…How had this happened? How was this his son? He didn’t deserve any of this.

            But Molly pressed her lips to his forehead and smiled, “he’s everything,” he told her quietly, chuckling at the way their son jerked, as if recognizing the voice that had kept his attention all those months.

            When he was done feeding, Sherlock watched with an ache he couldn’t begin to describe as the baby was put against his mother’s chest, bare skin to bare skin, breathing together, existing in perfection, in biological recognition that Sherlock thought was more spiritual than he would ever comprehend.

            “Do you want to hold him?” she asked, looking up at him.         

            “God, no,” he laughed, “I’m dying to but he’s so _small_.”

            “You won’t hurt him,” Molly murmured, “just make sure to support his head—”

            “I know _that_!” Sherlock protested

            “Then shut up and take him,” she laughed, transferring their son, now bundled up in blue much to his mother’s dismay. He looked at his tiny son, cradled so trustingly in his arms. A new life, pure and fresh, with endless possibilities spread out before him. His tiny son, his beautiful little boy, part Molly, part Sherlock, wholly and beautiful, inexplicably his own person.

            “Well?” Molly prodded gently, looking up at Sherlock, “we’re going to have to name him some time.”

            Sherlock chuckled, grinning at the way the new life in his arms responded to the sound, “eventually,” he murmured, Molly fingers caressed his against their son’s body. Sherlock was obsessed with the little face, with those long blonde lashes, cat-like eyes that watched the world with suspicion, his long fingers already exploring his mouth with curiosity. Ten perfect fingers, ten perfect toes, beautiful light-colored eyes, a button of a nose that begged for his father’s kiss, a strong chin and lips that were a copy of Sherlock’s.

            “What about Victor?” she suggested softly.

            “Oh, my beautiful Molly,” he leaned down to kiss her softly on the lips, “what a sweet thought but,” he shook his head, “this little one is going to have to live through so much already, not the least bit is having Mycroft as an uncle and Eurus for an aunt. And Hudders for a babysitter. And God help him, but me as a father,” he rocked his son automatically, “he has endless futures and possibilities ahead of him, a world filled with hurdles he must conquer. I want his name to give him that new start, the new beginning his very existence gives _me_. My benediction in the ugliest of realities.” His eyes flared as he glanced up at Molly, barely able to contain his excitement, “ _Benedict_.”

            “William Benedict Sherlock Holmes. I love it,” Molly kissed him slowly, their son nestled between their bodies, “can I tell people he’s named after my favorite actor?”  
            “The one with the daft name?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, matching her teasing tone.

            Molly laughed quietly, pressing her forehead against Sherlocks arm, watching their son coo against his father’s chest, settling into sleep once he was reassured that his daddy was there to keep him safe in this new reality of his. “Benedict,” Molly smiled, “perfect.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few Easter eggs I hid and I'm wondering if you'll catch em-- and I'm immensely proud of his name, it fits so perfectly! Let me know what you think!


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!!

            They adamantly refused to let anyone nickname their son Benny, allowing him to only be referred to as Benedict or Ben, any other variation was met with Benedict’s father’s meanest glance. And Benedict grew steadily before his parent’s eyes, and Sherlock was convinced he could track the changes in his boy minute by minute, second by second.

Sherlock was, quite frankly, obsessed with his son.

            For the first eight months of his life, Benedict slept between his parents on their bed, tucked safely between their warm bodies, protected and loved by the world’s greatest consulting detective and London’s premiere pathologist. He would wake up occasionally, demanding milk or a change, his parents often switching tasks for the night. Some nights Ben refused to go back to sleep, and Sherlock would rise out of bed, pressing his son’s cheek above his heart and carried him downstairs. They would spend hours together while Molly slept, Sherlock talking to his son, and his son listening intently. They spent their days around their baby, and Molly felt grateful that Sherlock worked from home when she returned to Barts.

            Sherlock had seen her tears the morning of her return to Bart’s, her reluctance at leaving their son home, watched the way she’d forlornly closed their front door and pretended she wasn’t crying. He sent her pictures of Benedict throughout the day, and when it was lunchtime, he put his son in a front pack after bundling him up, and they went to Barts to visit her at work. Molly’s face brightened when she saw them walk through the morgue, laughing at the image Sherlock cut, wearing his Belstaff over his light blue suit, their son strapped to his chest, somehow managing to retain an aura of mystery and grace even with the adorable, cooing baby that looked at him with toothless adoration.

            “Hi baby!” she grinned, taking her son from his father’s arms, “come to visit mama at work, have you?”  
            “We even brought you lunch,” Sherlock grinned, pulling out two packets of crisps from the pockets of his Belstaff, making her laugh.

            Sherlock and Ben had taken her out to a proper lunch after that, and Molly had sat with her son in her lap, his weight and warmth a grounding force as Sherlock sat with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. They’d talked about the cases Molly was working on, bouncing ideas off each other about possible causes of death, possible toxins that could have created a specific pattern of marks on the skin below the armpits. They’d shared a basket of chips, their son cooing between them, reaching out a chubby hand every few minutes to touch Sherlock’s cheek before returning to his babbling, then looking at Molly with absolute worship in his eyes.

            When Sherlock felt comfortable enough, he went back to work, welcoming clients and conducting interviews in Baker Street. They’d converted his room to a more baby friendly space, keeping his bed and simply adding a crib for Benedict. No client was allowed in the premises unless Benedict was safely tucked away downstairs with Mrs. H or napping. And if the young boy needed his father, Sherlock didn’t hesitate for a single heartbeat in simply standing up and going to his son, leaving Greg or John, sometimes both, to explain to the client where Sherlock went.

            When it was time for Benedict to sleep in his own room, he had no idea that his parents spent the entire night laying awake, side by side, gripping each other’s hands, ears straining for any sound of his movement even though they had high tech baby monitoring equipment. Ben woke up rested and content the next morning, his parents gulping down cups of coffee like their life depended on it. But naptime still called for Sherlock’s touch, and father and son would often end up wherever they dropped, whether on the couch, the armchair, bed or the floor, son’s cheek pressed against father’s chest, the father’s long fingers cradling the precious life on top of him.

            Sherlock found he was craving Molly’s body, craved her warmth, the heat that only he knew and lived for, but he forced himself to be patient with her, forced himself to let her come to him when she felt ready to. She kissed him and took him into her mouth, give him Earth shattering orgasms with her brown eyes watching him, but never letting him touch her the way he wanted to, not letting him sink himself into her warmth or taste her sweetness. So, he waited, patiently, hungry for her.

 _Starving_.

And one night, with Benedict safely tucked away in his nursery, she had come to Sherlock with a shy smile, biting her lip as she’d sat on their bed next to him, her hand on his thigh as he’d practically thrown his laptop off his lap. “I’m—I’m ready,” she murmured, “if you—if you want me,” she’d said, breaking his heart.

            He knew he should’ve been gentle with her body, knew he should’ve stroked her and petted her, kissed her, and welcomed her back into his arms with patience and tenderness.

But he’d turned into a howling animal, a berserker, a werewolf with Molly’s body his full moon and his only saving grace. He’d latched onto her breasts and made her scream in indignation as he’d tugged at her with his mouth, tasting her, her fingers wild in his hair until he’d finally slipped inside her, his entire body quivering for control as she surrounded him. She’d felt so swollen, so ready for him he’d nearly lost control of himself. He couldn’t quite remember anything after that, everything a blur of ecstasy in his mind, waking up the next morning with an imprint of her teeth on his shoulder where she’d bitten him to keep herself from screaming too loudly.

But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t keep his hands from touching her, from feeling her softened body, feeling the unnerving urge to worship her, not just with his hands and lips and tongue but with his entire being. He understood the biology of procreation and motherhood, understood the evolutionary developments that had prepared and helped Molly carry their benediction for nine months, understood the biological history of her body’s ability to produce breast milk, to give their son what he needed…but there was a part of Sherlock that wasn’t convinced anymore, that watched her breastfeeding their son and couldn’t really count just on the biology as an explanation.

Every time he touched her and felt the extra weight she’d put on, whenever he saw the stretch marks that marked her skin, whenever she rolled her eyes and complained about her breasts leaking and ruining her shirt, he felt awed, as if staring into the face of the universe.

His Molly and their son stole his breath away.

            One night during bath time, after splashing Molly and giggling profusely, their son decided to wee on his mother just as she’d lifted him out of the tub. “You bastard!” she’d laughed looking down at her t-shirt, “was that _really_ necessary, Bumble B?” she’d asked, shaking her head as her son laughed heartily, clapping his chubby hands, immensely pleased with himself.

            “Oy! Don’t call him a bastard!” Sherlock yelled from down the hall before he appeared in the nursery where Molly had taken their son.

            “Sherlock,” she laughed, pressing kisses to their son’s belly, making him chortle and grab her hair, “he is, by definition, a bastard,” she grinned.

            Benedict started crawling when he was eight months old, starting to walk when he was nine months, and running his parents and godfather ragged by the time he was ten months old, laughing in gleeful bursts of excitement as they tried to run him down. His first word was spoke at just six months, looking Sherlock straight in the eye and declaring him “dadadadada”, Molly was Christened by him next, her son’s eyes beautiful, his expression gleeful and adoring as he’d declared her “mamaaaaaaa.” And to Sherlock’s delight, his son had decided to call Mycroft “Oft” and John was a garbled sound with a “j” sound somewhere in it. The only name he pronounced with precision was Rosie’s, his faithful playmate.

            When Benedict had grown to stringing two to three words sentences, his father often taught him to annoy “Oft”, making his son swear that he would never call Mycroft anything else. “Ben’ict want ginguh nut,” became his parents nightmare, and Molly blamed the love for ginger nuts on Sherlock. “Ben’ict want Hudders” was a request more easily solved.

But somehow, Ben’ict, as he was known to himself, decided he would start calling his dada and mama as “My dada” and “my mama” instead of simply just calling them. The urge for him to mark them as his baffled his parents, but they shrugged and loved their son beyond measure.

            He was brilliant without any prodding from his parents and recognized numbers and the alphabet by the time he was three. But then, who was surprised that Sherlock and Molly’s son would be so brilliant? They went out of their way to encourage his imagination, to draw out his thoughts and feelings to articulation, reading to him every night and playing with him during the day. Molly would often come to Baker street after a long day at work to find them nestled together by the fireplace, similar and fierce expressions of concentration on their faces as they read.

            By the time Benedict was five, father and son had moved onto _the Hobbit_ , and she laughed at Sherlock’s dragon voice, their son’s laughter amazed and intrigued, carrying throughout their little house. He peppered his parents with questions, with every breath he took, his eyes wonderous and amazed as they answered him with patience and love, and they prided themselves by the fact that his preschool teachers told them that he was the brightest student, generous with his toys and smiles. Sherlock had laughed after they’d walked away from a meeting with Benedict’s teacher, teasing Molly that there was no way Ben was his child, not with that loving and sweet disposition.

            But Ben’s innate intelligence marked him as Sherlock’s son, for all the world to see. For example, by age six, he could name every celestial body in the Milky Way Galaxy, and urged by his godfather and uncle, he could even name bodies outside their galaxy, telling his father in excited tones about suns and black holes beyond their reach. It became routine for Benedict to fall asleep in his father’s arms with his mother’s kiss against his cheek, and no one woke up surprised that he’d somehow ended up in his parents’ bed some time in the middle of the night. This new habit didn’t sit well with Sherlock, and it made Molly laugh heartily at his expense when he grumbled about having to lock the doors when they made love and getting dressed afterwards, should their son decide to come for a midnight visit.

            Molly’s warmth and love had carried Sherlock for so many years, but he was shocked that the same qualities were in his son’s eyes.

They became his lifeline, his joy, his every thought, occupying practically every room in Sherlock’s mind palace and pushed out the demons that lurked there. His son’s intuition often flabbergasted him, and knew it was Molly’s heart that pumped in his son’s chest when the child recognized Sherlock’s need for a hug or kiss, or a simple press of his forehead to Sherlock’s knee as he sat in his armchair and Ben on the ground. The intuition become perfected, Benedict wrapping himself around Sherlock whenever his father came home from Sherrinford, smelling of the sun and sea, and Sherlock hugged Ben against his chest with all the strength he had in his arms.

            Molly decided to start a new routine for Sherlock, hating how defeated and broken he looked after visiting his sister every first Saturday of the month, his features becoming more drawn with every visit. So she and Ben would make sure they were baking for him when he got back, with tea and coffee ready, then spent the rest of their day with Sherlock playing and laughing, filling him with so much joy that nothing else could live in him.

            It was on Benedict’s fifth birthday that Sherlock noticed Molly behaving…oddly, even for Molly. While he and John ran around with the rest of the kids and Ben in their little yard, she stayed relatively still, her smile secret as she sat between Hudders and his mum, taking pictures but not really doing much else, nearly falling over in laughter when he and John were cajoled by Rosie and Ben to join them in the bounce house.

The presents opened and destroyed, the cake devoured, their little home a mess, Sherlock and Molly sat exhausted on the couch that night together, side by side, holding hands with their legs stretched in front of them on the coffee table, Ben’s head in his mother’s lap as he slept peacefully, clutching the Doctor Strange action figure his mother had bought him.

            “So,” Sherlock said quietly as they stared exhaustedly at the muted images on the television, “how far along are you?”

            “Six weeks,” she smiled, “took you long enough.”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Easter eggs from last chapter were the time of Benedict's birth = Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday, and the actual date of birth was Loo Brealey's.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but, hopefully, sweet!

            The thought of marriage had never carried any weight for Sherlock Holmes. He’d never seen it as anything beyond a social formality, a construct of immeasurable idiocy. Especially when the couple contemplating marriage were already living together and had a child together with another on its way.

            He watched Molly as she and Benedict sat together, heads nearly touching as they concentrated on the crossword puzzle, the famous one designed by Alan Turing during the second World War. She listened to their son patiently, smiling at him as he explained something to her, watching the way he grinned at Molly when she told him he was right. Sherlock loved the way she kissed the top of Ben’s head in congratulations, in recognition of his achievement. She was such a wonderful mum, such a wonderful mate.

            She never brought up the subject of marriage, hadn’t even broached it. She was happy the way they were, laughing at the confusion of people, especially school administrators, doctors and hospital staff, the clergy when they’d gotten Benedict baptized that her name was Molly Hooper and her son was Benedict Holmes. Sherlock had been ready to bring the world crashing around the priest at St. Thomas if he refused to baptize Benedict because his parents were unmarried. Instead, he’d blinked in wonder and confusion at the old priest’s grin of welcome and understanding.

            Six years later, over six years later, why was he thinking about marriage now? Why was he suddenly overcome with the urge to make Molly Hooper his wife? He referred to her as his partner, his mate, the mother of his son, the love of his life but there was an urge recently to call her his wife.

Better yet, to be called Molly Hooper’s husband.

Maybe it had something to do with their impending second child, due to arrive in the blink of an eye.

They tucked Benedict in together that night, each kissing his forehead before they snuck back downstairs to cuddle together on the couch. She had her legs in his lap while he read, and she watched something on the telly, her hand cradling her growing belly, yawning so wide and so often that her jaw cracked. “Molly,” he said after a while, putting down the book and taking off the reading glasses that age had made a necessity.

“Mmm?” she asked through a yawn, barely glancing at him.

She was suddenly transformed before his eyes to the clueless girl that had followed him around with puppy dog eyes, with a massive crush. For some strange reason, he recalled with clarity the day she’d introduced Jim from IT to him, the flush of anger when he’d told her Jim was gay. Remembered the way she used to stammer around him, remember the thousands of attempts she’d made to invite him out for coffee, the thousands of times she’d put on lipstick for his benefit but he’d been too ignorant of the loveliness of her mouth.

And here she was now, the mother of his child, growing with his seed for the second time, so content and comfortable around him that she barely acknowledged him anymore.

“I have a bizarre question to ask,” he said, running his hand over her calf, his fingers massaging her swollen ankles.

“Not another one of your stupid games,” she laughed, “I’m _so_ tired Sherlock. Play it with Ben in the morning, you know how much he loves it.”

Sherlock laughed, “well that’s the thing,” he grinned, “Ben’s already played. I mean, he hasn’t played but he’s a party to the game, he’s done his bit.”

            She finally looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “what’s his bit?”

            “He had to give his opinion about something,” he answered. She held her hand out for him and he helped her sit up, her legs still in his lap.

            “About?” she asked.

            He reached into his pocket, pulling out black velvet box, “well, for one, how utterly cheesy this was going to be, and two, he helped me pick out the ring. Because you’re Molly Hooper and I’m Sherlock Holmes, and there’s a little somebody upstairs named Benedict Holmes, and we don’t do things the typical way.”

            “It’s finally happened,” she murmured, “you’ve finally lost your mind.”

            “I think that happened before Ben was born,” he grinned, taking her hand in his, rubbing her ring finger between his, “Molly Hooper, love of my life, love of my heart, the only person I’ve ever needed, the mother of my children, will you, after all these years, marry me?”

            She laughed, tears swelling in her eyes as she gave him the sweetest smile, “Sherlock Holmes, love of my life, love of my heart, my very soul, the father of my children, I would be honored to marry you.”

           

             


	36. Chapter 36

            Morning of the wedding, Sherlock woke up to the familiar sensation of a small, warm body sneaking beneath the covers, the head trustingly finding the space between his shoulder blades as Sherlock slept on his stomach. Grinning into his pillow, Sherlock cracked open an eye, glancing at the alarm clock, “child of mine, _why_ would you wake up so _ridiculously_ early?” he groaned.

            “It’s your wedding day, daddy!” his son replied, face pressed against his father’s skin.

            “Surely that means you should let me sleep!” he grumbled, reaching a hand behind him, finding his son’s warm body.

            “Aren’t grandmama and grandpapa coming soon?” he asked quietly.

            Sherlock yawned, “soon darling, giving you and me enough to time to eat breakfast in peace.”

            “Uncle Mycroft too?”

            “Mycroft, don’t call him uncle.”

            “Why?” Benedict asked curiously.

            “It makes him too happy,” Sherlock moved carefully, somehow keeping his son from getting crushed behind him, winding up on his back with Ben’s cheek on his chest, “and you’re supposed to help me torture him.”

            “But mama says to be nice,” Ben glanced up at Sherlock with his own mercurial gaze.

            “Then we listen to mama but find other ways to torture your uncle nonetheless,” Sherlock brushed his fingers through his son’s black curls with a grin, “maybe call him Uncle Myc?”

            His son’s smile was as warm as his mother’s, tucking his head back against Sherlock’s bare chest. Sherlock had so wanted their son to look like Molly, but Benedict had ended up looking so much Sherlock that his, Sherlock’s, mother had taken to showing pictures of father and son at the same age, challenging people to tell which was which.

            The strangest thing to him was seeing the beauty in his son’s features and not recognizing the same thing in himself. Especially his eyes. Ben’s eyes confounded him, obsessed Sherlock with their ability to shift colors depending on the light. When he’d mentioned the beautiful phenomenon to his Molly, she’d blinked at him as if he was crazy, and had pointed out that his own eyes did the same thing.

            But his son’s eyes were more beautiful, more expressive, more shocking in their mercurial splendor.

            “Why can’t we see mama today?” Ben asked softly.

            “Oh,” Sherlock breathed, “your mother somehow and without any logic wants to keep to the tradition of the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding, because it is believed that there’s a correlation between the groom seeing the bride before the ceremony and the marriage being doomed, although we’ve been living together for nearly eight years and our _son_ is my ringbearer,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, his son giggling, “she basically just wanted you and me to have a sleepover at Baker Street so she could get some sleep.”

            “I like having sleepovers at Baker Street,” his son told him frankly.

            “Me too,” he lifted himself up to a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his son, kissing the top of his head and grinning idiotically at the identical tuxedos that were hanging on the closet door, one of them a shrunk version of the other. John, who would be his best man, had offered to have a stag party for him, even suggesting that they invite Greg and Mycroft along for the festivities. But he’d seen Sherlock’s reluctance, the memory of John’s stag party still fresh in his mind. They’d ended up staying in Baker Street, having a few drinks while playing games with Benedict, Sherlock taking immense delight in watching his son constantly beat Mycroft at Operation. Sherlock had never imagined that he would be getting married, let alone imagined a stag night where he would spend it with his son, his brother, and two best mates. “C’mon, we should get showered and dressed before the invasion begins,” he murmured against his son’s black curls.

            Sherlock sat on the edge of the tub in just pajama bottoms, watching his son splash around the water, blowing bubbles at his father, using the special bath crayons to draw on the shower walls. Eventually, Sherlock helped his boy out of the tub, drying him with a towel as he told him why their skin pruned after showers and baths, and explained where his fingerprints came from. Dressing Ben in a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, he told his son to go wait for him in their bedroom. Leaving the bathroom door open, just in case, Sherlock jumped in the shower himself, setting a world record for the fastest bath.

            Father and son were in the bathroom, drying each other’s hair and brushing their teeth when Mrs. Hudson’s familiar “hoo hoo!” sounded from the living room.

            Sherlock grinned as Ben ran out of the bathroom, shouting “Hudders!” at the top of his lungs, hugging the landlady tightly around the middle.

            “Good morning dear!” Mrs. Hudson greeted him, “My! You two are up early!”

            Sherlock walked into the living room at a slower pace, pulling on his tan housecoat, “the child is of the morning, like his mother,” he sighed, “what can I do,” he grinned, sitting down in his armchair.

            “He is absolute sunshine!” Mrs. Hudson smiled, kissing the top of Ben’s head.

            Sherlock grinned at his boy, letting him crawl into his lap after grabbing a rubic’s cube from the floor, “my benediction,” Sherlock smiled.

            Eventually they moved to the kitchen, helping each other cook breakfast after Hudders went back downstairs. With a bowl of fruit between them, a glass of milk for Ben, tea for Sherlock, they sat together and enjoyed the omelets _a la_ Molly. Sherlock’s phone rang in his pocket, Molly’s designated ring tone filling the kitchen. He answered the video call, Ben saddling up to him, identical grins on their face as they greeted Molly, who positively beamed. “Good morning boys!” she smiled, her hair swept back from her clean and fresh face.

            “Morning my mama,” Ben grinned, cheek resting against Sherlock’s bicep.

            “Morning my baby mama and wife-to-be-after one point five children,” Sherlock winked at her.

            Molly ignored him, looking at their son, “Bumble B, is Sherlock behaving himself?”

            Benedict, his mother’s buzzing little bee, shook his head, “he’s been complaining all morning,” Ben quickly ratted his father out with a knowing smile, “he says it’s not fair that we can’t see you before the wedding.”

            “Did he now?” she laughed.

            “Oy!” Sherlock was looking at his son, utterly offended, “I thought you were on my side!”

            “Daddy,” Ben rolled his eyes, “I’m on your side sometimes and sometimes on mamas! Don’t you always tell me I’m half you half mama?”

            “Clever boy,” Sherlock smiled, “you’ll make a good barrister someday, though with two scientists for parents, how that happened I will never know.”

            “Mycroft,” Molly said with an evil laugh, “he clearly takes after him! Anyway, I’ve got to dash my darling boys, I just wanted to say hi! I love you both, I’ll see you in a few hours! And Bumble B, keep your eye on him!” and she cut the connection with a wink.

            John walked into the flat not long after that while they cleaned up the kitchen, carrying his tuxedo, his smile bright for Benedict, “where’s Rosie?” Ben asked quickly, looking for his godsister behind her father.

“Dropped her off with Molly,” he answered, “she’ll be meeting us at the church. Ready to get married, then?” he asked Sherlock with a smile.

            “Oh John,” Sherlock was rolling his eyes again, “it’s just a meaningless ceremony involving jewelry and a signature.”

            “But are you ready?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “I’m ready, of course I’m ready, why wouldn’t I be ready?” Benedict glanced at his father curiously, “hush!”

            “I didn’t say anything!” Ben protested.

            “You’re my son, I know what you were thinking,” he told him, trying to sound severe and admonishing, his smile ruining the affect.

           

* * *

 

            A part of Molly Hooper still couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of an altar, holding hands with Sherlock Holmes, exchanging vows in front of all of their friends and family, with their son standing by his father’s leg, their unborn child nestled between their vows. She didn’t quite believe she was wearing the beautiful satin and lace wedding gown in an off-white tone, having felt slightly silly at the idea of it being pure white, with a jeweled belt right over her belly, as if signaling to the world that she was waiting for her second child with Sherlock Holmes. She couldn’t quite believe the sight of her Sherlock in that beautiful three-piece tuxedo, his trousers and the waistcoat different shades of gray, his morning coat a perfect fit across his broad shoulders in a black that matched his tie. She was even more unbelieving that their curly haired son wore the same thing, looking as if someone had used a shrink ray on Sherlock to make their Benedict, their benediction.

            But this was her reality, this was her life, and this was her blessing.

            “Do you, Molly, take Sherlock to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, till death do you part?” the priest asked.

            “I do,” she grinned into her Sherlock’s eyes.

            _My soul_.

            “And do you, Sherlock, take Molly to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, till death do you part?”

            “Death can try,” Sherlock murmured, laughing softly before adding, “I do.”

            “Wonderful,” the priest chuckled, “with the power vested in me, it is my absolute honor to pronounce you wife and husband. Sherlock Holmes, you may kiss the beautiful bride!”

            Sherlock laughed his delight, cupping his wife’s face in his broad palms, stopping only a breath from her lips before glancing down, “may I?” he asked Benedict.

            Their son yelled an enthusiastic “YES!” gripping his father’s trousers, bouncing in excitement as Sherlock kissed his Molly, kissed his wife, the love of his life, laughing against her mouth as the guests began cheering loudly but not quite as loudly as their son.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to Molly’s forehead, breathing her in, “I love you,” he told her.

            She returned his smile, her tears swimming in her eyes as she kissed his forehead, holding the contact between them, “I love you too,” she told him, kissing him again.

            Sherlock pulled away only slightly, he bent down to pick up their son, holding him between them as they pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks, making him chortle, the photographer forever capturing the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure,” the priest raised his voice as Sherlock transferred his son to his other hip, Molly taking his free arm, “to introduce you all to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes!”

            The three of them walked into the sunshine, showered with flower petals and all the love in the world, more love than they could imagine, laughing and smiling at the beautiful day. After innumerous pictures, Benedict as impatient as his father as they posed for seemingly endless hours, they moved on to the party half of the day, Molly and Sherlock sitting at the head table with their son in the middle, sharing kisses and smiles over the top of his head, their arms permanently wrapped around the back of his chair until he decided he wanted to sit with his grandparents for a bit.

            John’s speech didn’t leave a dry eye in the room, laughing as he remembered Sherlock’s endless speech at his wedding, “you know,” he had said quietly, “I had no idea that Sherlock and Molly were even together until a few months before Benedict was born. But my Mary, my Mary had already figured it out,” he chuckled, “she would spend hours talking about what she could do to help Molly out, how she could help her by putting her in Sherlock’s path, then after Rosie was born she stopped talking about playing matchmaker. It took me a while, but I now realize she must have found out, seen what the rest of the world and I missed. I know she’s here today with you and Molly, Sherlock, she adored you both, and I’m happy that you have this moment.”

            For their first dance, Molly had chosen an old favorite song of hers, a song that always made her think of her Sherlock, Nick Cave’s _the ship song_. He held her in his arms, lips pressed to her forehead as they danced together as wife and her husband.

_Come sail your ships around me_

_And burn your bridges down_

_We make a little history, baby_

_Every time you come around_

            Eventually Benedict came and Sherlock picked up their son, the three of them—well, four—began dancing together, the little boy looking beyond elated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter honestly and I hope you enjoyed it. You may have noticed that there is a lot of fluff in the last few chapters and honestly, I couldn't not. The emotional toll writing all of this took on me demanded the fluff! As you're aware, tomorrow is the last chapter of Stranger Than Kindness!! 
> 
> I'll be doing an AMA (Ask Me Anything) thread on Tumblr for those interested-- again, I'm thehiddenlawyer on there. Or you can ask here, and I'll try to answer!


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a sigh, with an outward breath, I give you the last chapter of Stranger Than Kindness.

            Guessing the sex of the new baby had become a game between father and son, and they’d even gotten Mycroft and John to participate in the baby betting pool. Molly disapproved, of course she disapproved, but she knew that once the two had their minds set on something, there was no way she could talk them out of it.

            The baby was due early February, and they already had three sonograms to determine the baby’s gender but this little one was stubborn, refusing to turn around no matter how much it was prodded by the technicians, no matter how much its father cajoled it to just turn around.

But the child refused, delighting Sherlock endlessly, especially when it kicked and responded as readily to his voice as Benedict had. “Just goes to show, the baby can clearly understand what we’re doing whenever we go to the doctors,” he’d laughed.

            Finally, the fourth time, with Molly growling vague threats against Sherlock’s life if the baby didn’t turn around, they went in for a sonogram. Benedict was with them that day, looking slightly nervous as he looked around at all the equipment in the examination room. His parents quickly caught the worry on his face, and Sherlock sat patiently with him in his lap on the plastic chair, Belstaff wrapped around his son, lips pressed to Ben’s ear as he quietly explained the equipment, explained what was going to happen and how the technology worked to show them his unborn brother or sister.

            Sherlock stood with Benedict in his arms by Molly’s side when the tech finally showed up, squirting the clear jelly on Molly’s belly that made her jump, no matter how many times the nurse told her it would be cold. Everyone in the room was holding their breath, Sherlock still murmuring quietly in Benedict’s ear, explaining the grainy black and white images that were blossoming and receding with the movement of the technician’s wand. Ben’s eyes widened when he heard the heartbeat, when he finally could make out the shape of a baby on the monitor.

            Molly and Sherlock held their breath, laughing in relief when they realized the baby was finally facing them, Sherlock breathing a “Christ! A sister,” he told his son, kissing his temple, “you’re going to have a sister.”

            “I knew it!” Ben said triumphantly.

            Unlike Benedict, they didn’t want until the last minute to bicker over names, decided they would start the fight early on, disagreeing with every name that came into mind until an entire wall in Baker Street was covered with baby names, designated by names that were gender-neutral and names that were girls only, categorized by Sherlock as “old, older than time, ancient, boring, passable”. She had looked at the wall as she stood next to him, her hands on her hips as he’d rubbed his lips in thought, his simple wedding band glinting in the sunlight filtering in through the window.

            “The passable category is empty,” she’d commented.

            “That’s because we haven’t found a passable one,” he told her, rolling his eyes with impatience.

            She rubbed a hand over her stomach as the baby kicked in response to her father, “we’re going to have to name her _something_ , Sherlock.”

            “Something Holmes, does have a ring to it!” he’d grinned cheekily but she walked away from him, exasperated.

            Their daughter, much in keeping with her parents impossibly dramatic life and following in her brother’s footsteps, decided that she would not only take her time and arrive a full two weeks after she’d been predicted, but also arrived in the middle of the night. Sherlock had woken up to Molly pushing him awake, this time he was a little bit more composed, calling Mrs. Hudson repeatedly and tersely telling her to get to their flat five minutes _ago_. They’d kissed Benedict before Molly had waddled down to the waiting car as they pretended they weren’t chocked up about leaving Benedict, Mrs. Hudson agreeing to bring him to the hospital in the morning, if he was up to it.

            Their daughter arrived with indignant screams and howls of protest only a few hours after Molly had gone into labor, weighing about the same as her brother, only slightly taller, and much angrier. She looked at her father with pale eyes, not bothering to hide her displeasure at being deprived of her mother’s warmth. He’d grinned at his daughter’s angry face as she lay against Molly’s breast, “I know little one,” he’d assured her softly, “but it does get substantially better, I promise you.”

            He laid his cheek against Molly’s chest, watching his daughter find serenity as she fed, pressing kisses over her soft hands as Molly played with his hair. There was a special fluttering in his very soul at the sight of her, at the sight of his daughter. “God, her skin is as delicate as lace,” he murmured, touching her with the lightest fingertip, “she’s so beautiful Molly, and we made her.”

            Molly had grinned a tired grin, handing their daughter to him after she’d finished nursing, loving the sure touch he now had as he took the precious bundle into his arms, sitting on the edge of Molly’s bed, his entire being concentrated on the purple bundle tucked against his chest. “She needs a name,” she murmured, stroking his bicep as she watched father and daughter stare at each other with inexplicable, mutual obsession.

            He tilted his head, looking at his daughter from different angles, “all the names we’ve had picked out for her don’t seem to fit.”

            “I still think Ishtar is a good one,” she grinned.

            “Name her after an ancient war and sex goddess,” Sherlock laughed softly, “what a teenager she’d make.”

“Lacy,” she said suddenly, “Sherlock, what about Lacy?”

            “Lacy Mary Holmes,” he murmured, “I like it.”

            But they had agreed earlier that they would only sign the birth certificate if her older brother approved. Mrs. Hudson brought him in, the boy shy and slightly alarmed at seeing his mother in the hospital bed, looking so tired and forlorn in the hospital gown that engulfed her. His pale eyes instantly swam with tears, “oh darling,” she lifted her arms for her, “hush now, come here,” she urged him and he ran across the room, but Sherlock caught him around the waist, lifting him off the floor before he could jump on Molly’s body.

            Sherlock held his son in one arm, his daughter nestled against his chest with the other arm, kissing his son’s cheek, “gently darling, gently,” he told him, “mummy’s tummy is still a bit delicate, okay?” then he set Benedict on the bed next to Molly, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead.

            Benedict instantly pressed his cheek to Molly’s chest, nestling against her as he cried quietly, his lips trembling with emotion. Sherlock sat at his son’s feet, stroking his legs and his back as Molly held him, soothing him, “everything is alright,” she told him, “I know all this stuff looks scary, but it really isn’t. None of it is hooked up to me because I’m perfectly healthy, just a bit tired bringing your sister to you,” she kissed his forehead, “the doctors said I get to go home tomorrow, so it can’t be all that bad right?” she used her finger to lift his face to hers, “now then my sweet benediction, don’t you want to meet your sister?”

            Sherlock smiled at his son, watched the boy’s eyes widen as he looked at his sister’s sleeping face. With a pang Sherlock remembered in snippets when he’d seen Eurus for the first time, cradled in his mother’s arms. He’d felt such love for her, such immense joy at her presence. He’d been so impatient for her to get there, his head filled with possibilities of a sister. He grinned at Benedict, at the way his son leaned over her curiously, “what color are her eyes?” he asked.

            “They look exactly like yours and daddy’s,” Molly answered, running a reassuring hand over his back.

            “She even has black hair like yours,” Sherlock murmured, “and ten perfect fingers and toes but she’s a bit louder. We’re thinking about calling her Lacy Mary. Lacy because she’s so perfect and pretty, Mary after your aunt Mary. What d’you think?”

            “Lacy Mary,” he murmured, running his fingertip softly over his sisters clenched fist, “she’s so soft,” he looked up into his father’s eyes, “I like it!”

 

* * *

 

            Nothing was hidden anymore.

            Their love in the sunshine, their story in the air, the connection of their souls a palpable, tangible presence for all those who saw them together.

            They had lived through more than any human should, had survived more than their share of heartbreak and trauma, had dragged each other through the deepest pits of hell, had seen each other at their worst. But somehow, the darkness never seemed to touch their lives now, somehow the dark memories of his drug use, of the way they’d torn each other’s hearts apart, the endless fights, his fake death, Janine, Tom, him getting shot, Magnussun, Culverton Smith, Sherrinford, Moriarty…none of it held them back.

            They still had their moments, Sherlock still lost himself in cases, they still butted heads, whether it was about the way he still climbed over furniture, now with Benedict and Lacy following him, or the way he sometimes forgot to put away crime scene photos and one of the kids glimpsed them. Molly and Sherlock still had nightmares that had them reaching for their spouse in the middle of the night, breathless, terrified, needing to feel the other’s presence, the reassurance that all was well.

He wrestled with his demons on a periodic basis, when his visits to Eurus were too much or if he was dealing with a particularly difficult case. He had briefly lost his mind once and considered using drugs, imagining the needle piercing his skin when a London serial killer had started targeting children. But Lacy, four at the time, had found him, running towards him with a book in her hands and asked him to read it for her. The demons disappeared as Lacy had nestled in his lap, her cheek against chest, her black hair soft as she giggled into his chest.

            But Sherlock couldn’t figure out whether it was the routine that protected him from complete madness, the routine of waking up every day and knowing he had a certain list of tasks he had to accomplish, all revolving around his family, or if it was the maturity of age that had him meet the rising bile of panic with serenity. It still haunted him, scared him out of his wits when he thought that his wife and his children could be used against him, still took paranoid precautionary measures to protect them, but he didn’t let it hold him back. His heart was open to his family and friends now, his smile more readily available for them, his laughter easier to come by.

            It was shocking, nearly crippling him the easy way he looked at his children and told them he loved them, how natural it was for him now to walk into a room and press kisses to their foreheads, to reach for Molly whenever he needed her. It terrified him still that he had embraced such a blinding weakness so wholeheartedly, still heard Moriarty in the deepest pits and dungeons of his mind palace. But Benedict and Lacy’s laughter always forced Moriarty to be quiet, forced his demons to recede, to give up, to leave him be in peace.

            And Molly…his Molly.

He sometimes found himself in utter amazement at her quiet strength, at the steel in her eyes, at the resilience of her soul, her endless capacity to love that she had given to their children. He watched her during their work days, wearing her white lab coat, sifting through stomach contents without blinking an eye as she explained to him something vital about to the case they were working on, her hair often in a ponytail or braid, depending on the length, her tone always professional with him. Then during the evening, he watched her with their children, helping them with their homework, catching up on their day, scolding them when she needed to and always loving them, always ready with a kiss and a hug, with a kind, encouraging word.

And at night, when she stopped being Dr. Hooper or Professor Hooper, when she stopped being a mama to their Benedict and Lacy, when she turned into just Molly…simply his Molly in his arms…he imagined it was like going to heaven every night. Her smile never lost its charm, her sighs and moans always sinking into his marrow, her kisses pure ecstasy, her body his sanctuary, his obsession as he tracked every single change in her, finding himself falling more passionately in love with his wife with every single age line, with every single laugh line they gave each other.

            He lost himself in her and she held tight. He sometimes found himself thrusting inside his Molly, his lips pressed against her throat as he panted, as she held him inside her, and remembered that night so long ago…when he’d told her he wasn’t okay, when he’d confessed his death to her and found in those brown eyes everything he’d been looking for. The friend he’d needed, the accomplice who would save his life, the strength he’d never known he’d lacked, the love that crippled him yet gave him superhuman strength. For as long as he lived, Sherlock would never forget the ferocity of her expression when he’d asked what she would do if he wasn’t the man either of them thought him to be, her simple reply of “what do you need” forever etched in him. He remembered how he’d sank himself in Molly’s warmth after they’d faked his death, on her couch in their old flat, how she’d dried his tears with the tip of her tongue, how she’d let him lose himself inside her body…And now…she was his wife. So much a part of him, of his day, of his life, of his everything, that he couldn’t tell where she ended, and he began.

            Looking at Benedict and Lacy, Sherlock knew he was forever intertwined with Molly, that they were now one being, sharing everything.   

            They woke up every morning as a unit, Sherlock the designated alarm clock when the kids started school, often uncovering their feet and wiggling their toes until they woke up. Most morning, Sherlock himself would be too sleepy to be a responsible parent, and he’d end up curling next to one of the children. One morning, after they’d moved into their new place in the outskirts of London, exhausted from the move and the case that he’d been chasing for the Yard, he got to Lacy’s freshly painted lavender colored room, slamming his foot into one of the boxes that were still stacked on her floor. His daughter, a heavy sleeper like him, didn’t even budge. He looked down at her, another walking, talking piece of him, with his eyes and lips, with her mother’s smile and chin, a temper all her own.

“I can’t,” he murmured, and slipped into bed next to his daughter. She immediately curled up around his arm, hugging his bicep tightly, and Sherlock only realized he’d fallen asleep when Benedict pushed him, his son’s eyes barely open, his hair standing up in odd clumps the way Sherlock’s always did.

            “Move,” was all Ben croaked, and immediately fell asleep with his cheek pressed against Sherlock’s chest, the way he had since he was a baby, forgetting his teenaged protests of affection in the haze of sleep and infinite affection for his father.  

Eventually Molly had gone looking for them, finding the three in Lacy’s bed, fast asleep, the sight a familiar one. She’d almost let them sleep in that morning, but the kids had school and she knew Sherlock was still on that pesky case, so she woke them up.

Three pieces of her soul, all grumpy.

The four of them would have breakfast together, discussing their plans for the day, husband and wife swapping kisses to their children’s delight, touching each other in small, imperceptible ways. Then Sherlock would take the kids to school, all three of them kissing Molly good bye for the day as she headed to Bart’s, head of the department now, the most respected pathologist in all of England with students reaching out to her from the United States. He would drop the kids off, pressing kisses to each other cheeks before heading to Baker Street to see if he could find a few cases, John always by his side, Greg always a strong presence, Mycroft always looming.

            The kids would often accompany him to Baker street after school, and he never let any client see them, and always ensured that they were either safely tucked away in his room or downstairs with Hudders, sneaking cookies he’d forbidden. They would end their day with Molly, eating dinner together as a family, talking about the most ridiculous things they could think of, moving as a unit to end their day.

            One morning he stood outside their brand-new home, a cottage with four bedrooms that gave his growing son and daughter room to flourish, his hands in his trouser pockets as he tilted his head back, letting the sun warm his face. He could hear his children in the house behind him, heard his 14-year-old son laughing heartily, heard his 8-year-old return the laughter, her voice soft as she responded. Ben’s voice was lost in his movement in the kitchen, all Sherlock managed to hear was his saying “nope!” popping the P the way Sherlock always did.

He smiled when he felt familiar arms wrap around his waist, a familiar kiss pressed between his shoulders, “are you happy Sherlock Holmes?” his wife asked softly.

            “More than happy,” he told her, tracing her wedding band on her finger.

            The one that always mattered, that mattered most of all…

            “Do you think require anything else?” she asked him.

            “Nope,” he turned in her arms, “as long as I have you Molly Hooper, there’s nothing else that I will ever need.”

            And in the end, love, emotions, attachments, relationships, kindness…none of them were stranger to Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for coming on this roller coaster ride with me, when I say I have loved writing this, it is an understatement of epic proportions. When I wrote what would later become the first chapter (at 3am, half asleep, in my phones "notes") I didn't think the story would amount to anything, and I didn't think it would get so much love. I'm so grateful it did and I'm extremely proud of the end result. 
> 
> I tortured us all but I hope you enjoyed the torture as much as I did! 
> 
> I will still be doing the little Ask Me Anything thread on tumblr (thehiddenlawyer) if you're interested!
> 
> Thank you, again, for reading.


	38. EPILOGUE 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPILOGUE ONE:  
> This takes place while Molly is pregnant with Benedict, a few months after Sherrinford. 
> 
> Enjoy!

            Molly blinked at her husband, her palms resting comfortably against her pregnant belly as she watched him in astonishment, “what do you mean you’ve never had Kisses?”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes, impatient as always as he paced in front of her while she nestled in his designated armchair in Baker Street, a big bag of Hershey’s Kisses open next to her steaming cup of tea. She was nearly eight months pregnant and getting larger every day, to her dismay, with her bladder their son’s favorite squeeze toy or kick toy (depending on his mood) and pressing against her spine as he got ready to come into the world. She couldn’t walk so much as waddle, feeling like a complete klutz whenever she walked somewhere with her Sherlock, with his perfect posture and measured gait. She was a walking poster child for mommy brain, constantly forgetting things to Sherlock’s amusement. And their son was _so_ active, constantly stretching and moving in her womb, already in his rhythm so she could at least time her naps right, but God help her if their son heard his father’s face. It always felt like he was doing summersaults, and it had gotten to the point where Sherlock would have to whisper when she was tired, just to let their baby rest.

She was miserable, for the most part. But she could confidently say that her favorite thing about being pregnant were the cravings, and the excuse of pregnancy that made those cravings…excusable. 

            She’d been known to push her Sherlock awake in the middle of the night, asking him for dill pickles or chips from a particular shop. And he’d learned his lesson too, the difference between dill pickles and regular pickles, although he was a connoisseur of chips himself. She craved ice cream beyond her own ability to understand. Or peanut butter with spicy crisps, even pouring hot sauce all over the crisps to Sherlock’s dismay.

He indulged her of course, and he indulged with her when her cravings were of the more conventional variety, laughing at her as they walked to the ice cream shop around the corner, hand in hand, and she devoured a bowl of the frozen treat as big as her head. “Blame it on your son,” she always shrugged. Sometimes the cravings were a bit more mild, like today’s sudden need, desperation, desire for Hershey’s Kisses. She’d called Sherlock, asking him to go to the shops to get her some since it was her day off and there was no way she was moving, and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home. He’d responded that the fridge was full of Hershey’s bars, left over since the last craving.

            That day, Sherlock Holmes learned that to pregnant women, Hershey bars and Hershey’s kisses were totally different and separate things. She’d been near tears over the phone and he knew he would’ve done anything for her in that moment.

So, he’d obliged the love of his life, the mother of his child, and stopped by the store before heading home to her.

            “Darling,” she chuckled, “all these years we’ve been together, and I had no idea you were so deprived.”

            Sherlock laughed, one hand in his trouser pocket as he stopped in front of her, “I’ve had Hershey’s _bars_ , Molly, I highly doubt they taste any different.”

            “But they’re _kisses_ ,” she insisted, “and they _do_ taste different.”

            He scrunched his nose in doubt, that adorable wrinkle appearing right in the middle of his eyebrows, “different packaging doesn’t change the recipe.”

            “How would you know?” she challenged, holding the piece of chocolate wrapped in silver foil up for him, “if you’ve never had one?”

            Sherlock unbuttoned his black coat and knelt in front of her, holding the armrests and effectively caging her with his body, his pale eyes dancing with amusement, “no, but they are made in the same factory, by the same company that has producing the same chocolate confections and repackaging them in different ways to generate revenue for decades. Why would I have to change my opinion of a _fact_?”

            Molly grinned at him, loving him with all her heart, knowing the hell he’d been through the past few months and appreciating the lightness of his smile, of his heart, that much more. She raised her brow at him, “fine then,” she sat up as much as she could, her big belly nestled between them as he watched with curious amusement as she fished three Kisses from the big, “eat these three, and honestly tell me that they don’t change your life, and I’ll drop the argument.”

            “Three Kisses,” he murmured, “these three Kisses, pieces of chocolate that I can have in bar form, and you will drop this argument.”

            “Yes,” she smiled, “three life changing Kisses.”

            “Alright,” he murmured and took the first one. She watched his long fingers deftly unwrap the little piece of chocolate, mindful of the nail he’d managed to scrape off while zesting a lemon a few days before, and popped the chocolate into his mouth.

She expected some smart, arrogant remark but years around Sherlock Holmes should have taught her better, “first kiss that changed my life,” he murmured, “must be the kiss we shared after you agreed to help me defeat Moriarty all those years ago, when you helped me survive the fall from the rooftop,” she sat silently watching as he popped the second piece of chocolate into his mouth, “second kiss that changed my life,” he murmured, “after John and Mary’s wedding, when you chased me down and we had that cigarette together before you took me home,” something shifted in his eyes, his smile a secret as he unwrapped the third kiss, “the third one that changed my life, the third of endless kisses, the one you gave me in the hallway at the hospital when I got back from Sherrinford, when you still found something inside me, after everything I’d put you through, to love.”

            “Oh,” she sighed, cupping his jaw in her palm, feeling the muscles of his jaw move with his teeth as he chewed the piece of chocolate, “Sherlock,” she shook her head in wonder at him, “that’s not what I meant at all. I’ll take it but you missed the point _completely_ ,” she teased.

            He laughed a bark of a laugh at that, “trust you to ruin the moment,” he shook his head, rolling his eyes in the same vein that he used to when they still believed they were just friends, but the venom was gone now, replaced by unconditional love that seemed to make his eyes glow. He reached for her cup of tea, “bloody hell, that chocolate is _rich_.”

            “Who told you to have three?” she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck and urging him down to her.

            “You!” he protested, his hands resting on her sides, his thumbs stroking her big belly as he brushed his mouth to hers, “and I always listen to you darling.”

            “Sure you do,” she smiled against his mouth, urging him closer and grateful that he’d gotten over his fear of hurting their baby. “Want more kisses?” she murmured.

            “From you? Always?” he brushed his lips to hers again, “from Hershey? One at a time from now on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out of nowhere, and as I've promised before, there will be epilogues, prologues, and slices of life in the STK universe and they're all completely unplanned. I hope you enjoyed this one!


	39. EPILOGUE TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue 2: A few months after the end of STK, after Sherlock has lived through a case that's shaken him to the core, he has a new method of dealing with the strain..

Whipping off his scarf, Sherlock Holmes climbed the stairs to his bedroom with legs that grew heavier with every step, his eyes feeling as if they were filled with sand, exhaustion turning his sharp mind dull. He wondered if it was age, contentment that was making him lazy, that was making slower and more susceptible to his body’s demands for food, rest, and sleep. He rubbed a hand over his features, nearly tripping over the last step as he shrugged out of his Belstaff, carrying it down the hall to his bedroom.

There was also the real possibility that the case he’d been investigating had drained him. He’d traced the new serial killer in London all the way to Budapest, had spent two weeks chasing him down, cornering the former electrician several times before it had all finally ended with a hostage situation in Chelsea, where the electrician had decided to use two young children as human shields. What was wrong with him, Sherlock Holmes, that he couldn’t even let himself think of how the confrontation between police and the serial killer had ended, not five hours ago?

Pushing open his bedroom, the smile that crossed his face gave him away instantly, reminded him immediately why he was so much more tired these days, why he suddenly felt more in tune with his fellow man instead of considering every other living being as simply another person to share oxygen with. Having a newborn son was exhausting, after all.

He snuck into the room, carefully avoiding the floorboards he knew would groan in protest at his weight and wondered if his eight-month-old son was still considered a newborn.

Sherlock gently laid down his coat on the chair by the window instead of throwing it the way he always did, standing at the foot of his and Molly’s bed, something shifting inside him, feeling something he’d never though he was capable of feeling, living a life he had never even been capable of imagining. He put his hands on his hips and just enjoyed what he was looking at, what was on his bed, pushing away the thoughts that began to bombard him without permission.

Molly, his Molly, the mother of his child, the ruler of his mind palace, was on her side, one arm beneath her head, the other wrapped protectively around their son. Benedict slept on his side too, facing his mother. They’d clearly fallen asleep while breastfeeding, with his son jerking from heavy sleep to suckle his mother halfheartedly, before slipping back into dreamland. This was a regular occurrence in the Hooper-Holmes household after both Molly and their benediction had discovered they liked laying on their side during feeding time. When Sherlock was home, he would usually curl up with them on the bed, letting all that he was be replaced with his Molly and their son.

The darkness of the world beyond his home, beyond his little family invaded him and there was no escaping it now. He strained his eyes, trying to focus on Benedict’s little body and his mop of black hair, desperate to keep his thoughts away but the flood was overwhelming, and Molly’s soft voice floated through his mind palace, reminding him to be patient with himself.

So, he stood there, looking at his family while they slept, letting himself become overwhelmed by the last two weeks, by the horror of the life he’d chosen for himself. Somewhere along the way however, he lost himself more in thinking about his internal change.

If this had been a year ago or two ago, before Benedict had been born, before Euros had forced his hand with Molly, he wouldn’t have given the case a second thought, a second glance. He would have solved it, let the police carry on the arrest without a backwards glance, already looking for the next case, the next distraction from his mind, from himself, from the darkness of his past that drove him, that threatened to sink him.

He had been running so long and so hard, had been so adamant to ignore the truth in the well, the tsunami of truth that had constantly touched the frayed edges of his consciousness, forcing him to find escape in drugs, in solving murders. The secrets in the well, the lies in Musgrave had made him run away from Molly, from all that she offered. The bottom of the well had made him a man convinced that emotions and love were a weakness to be avoided, to be run away from with all expedience, a useless weakness of the heart and mind.

But looking into his son’s pale eyes, so similar to his own that he couldn’t believe his new reality, lying awake at night with Molly’s warmth next to him, Sherlock had finally come to understand that it was a weakness worth having, a weakness worth dying for. More importantly, a weakness worth living for.

Instead of losing himself for hours in his mind palace, in his thoughts, he now had a reason to stay grounded in reality, to want to be conscious and fully committed to every moment of his world.

His greatest pleasure came from watching Molly blossom into motherhood, taking on her new role with such ease, as if she had endless experience with infants. It was with endless fascination that he watched the way she instinctively knew what their son needed and when, how a simple touch from Molly seemed to bring Benedict’s world into focus again when all else had failed him. Watching her nursing their baby had become Sherlock’s obsession, the way they curled into each other, the way Benedict’s legs moved or kicked depending on his move, the way he petulantly lifted Molly’s shirt up or grabbing her skin with his tiny fist, squeezing experimentally. And recently, his knowing smile every time he bit into his mother’s skin with budding teeth.

Who knew that Sherlock would become so rivetted by a teething baby? Spending hours with Benedict on his chest, laying on the floor with the irate baby sucking on something cold, or walking around 221B Baker St. or their new home, talking gently to his son to distract him from the new experience of teeth. More than once, Molly had caught Sherlock rambling on about what it must be like to never experienced something as mundane as teeth to Ben, who listened intently, temporarily distracted from his sore gums. It had been with the greatest pride when they’d realized that his son preferred to nibble on Sherlock’s finger to ease the pain than anything else and insisted on sleeping against his father’s chest when it was all too much for his brand-new life.

On those nights, when Sherlock couldn’t sleep, spellbound by the new life sleeping on his chest, so blindly trusting, exhausted from shedding so many tears, he thought about Ben’s young life and how this was his greatest calamity. In the eight months he’d been alive, every new experience must have felt like the end of the world, every new sensation, pleasant or unpleasant, every new taste or smell, every new touch, a world of darkness contained in the unknown. Sherlock felt honored that his relied so heavily on him during those moments of confusion, humbled by his son’s trust in his abilities to help make sense of the world.

It gave Sherlock a sense of newness as he experienced life with Ben, through his son. Sherlock had been just as mesmerized as Benedict when his young son had inadvertently caught his feet in his tiny, chubby fists during a nappy change one morning, and had stared at his feet as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. The day Ben had discovered his fingers, he and Sherlock had spent hours trying to figure them out.

He was astonished by Molly’s instinctiveness as a mother, but he had never thought he would be told by anyone that he was an good father, that his son would look at him so adoringly, rely on him so wholeheartedly. When Sherlock’s own father had touched his shoulder and told him Sherlock used to look at him the way Benedict now looked at Sherlock…that day, Sherlock knew he was doing something right.

The two children that had been murdered today…in front of his eyes…he felt broken for them, for John and Greg who had been unable to hide their tears, their sorrow at the young lives that had been so needlessly taken. He had felt the surprise of the police around him, even John and Greg’s surprise, when he’d had to walk away from them or sob where he stood. He’d only returned after he’d gotten himself under control, but he could feel the wetness of his tears, saw his own tears in the shocked expressions of the officers around him.

Sherlock took a deep breath now, finding the strength Molly gave him and clutching it with both hands, imagining her in his mind palace, the way she always flooded every dark corner with sunshine, with the promise that it would get better if he tried to make it better. If he didn’t just give up. He took off his jacket, shooting his cuffs and rolling his sleeves as he quietly slipped his shoes off, not wanting to awaken his sleeping family. As gently, as quietly as he could, he slipped into bed behind his son, resting his hand on his son’s warm body, pressing a kiss to Molly’s forehead above Benedict’s head.

Sherlock had barely closed eyes when he felt his son shift between him and Molly, and when he looked down, his own eyes were staring up at him with sleepy joy, “dada!” Ben declared, wiggling his body with a little help from Sherlock until he was facing him, his little son, his benediction, his blessing pressing his face into Sherlock’s chest with a contented sigh before drifting off to sleep.

Molly’s eyes fluttered open in time to see Sherlock’s astonished smile, cradling Benedict’s little body with his long fingers, looking lost in the moment. “Hey,” she touched her fingertips to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Hey,” his voice was barely a whisper, sounding hoarse around the lump in his throat.

“Oh, for Christ’s—” she laughed softly when she realized her breast was still out from where their baby had been nursing, tugging her tank top down, warming Sherlock as she rolled her eyes playfully before scooting closer to them, bracketing Ben from behind, “you alright?” she asked, lacing their fingers over their son’s sleeping body.

He’d texted her from the crime scene, as soon as he’d had a moment to breath as the crime scene unit had begun to clean up the mess that had been left behind. She hadn’t tried to sooth him, hadn’t tried to tell him it was okay, she’d simply replied “I’m here. I love you, come home as soon as you can my darling, Bumble B and I are waiting.”

And he’d survived the day, because he had a weakness now, and he reveled in it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


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